Brock
Parnell's life seems pretty mundane, except for the presence of Tack
Carmichael. Since eighth grade, Tack has managed to make Brock's life
a living hell. On the 11:00 News that night, Brock hears the
announcement that Tack Carmichael is dead. He's pretty happy about
that, until the cops knock on his door and take him in for
questioning. Apparently, whoever shot Tack, used Brock's gun. He's
been grilled by several people, including a beautiful assistant district attorney, but has nothing much to say, since
he's not guilty. It's late at night and Brock is tired. He puts his head down on the table between rounds.
Someone
pulled a chair up next to me and sat down. Whoever it was smelled
like stale cigarettes and old coffee.
"Hey,
Brock."
It
was my friend Sam. I grunted, tipping my head to the side so I could see him
with one eye.
"What?"
"They
wanted me to come talk to you."
"Sam,
I swear to you, I didn't kill Tack. I didn't like the guy. Nobody
liked the guy. But I didn't kill him."
"They
think maybe you and Amy did it together, Brock."
"Fuck
me bald," I mumbled. "I haven't been with Amy for nearly a
year. We had a short thing for awhile, but it's over. I saw her a
couple days ago up at the club, after the first round of the
tournament. That's the first day in six months."
"They
figure maybe you've been keeping a low profile to throw everyone off
the scent. They figure maybe you planned this over a year ago when
the gun got supposedly stolen. That you set this up so it wouldn't
look so suspicious now."
"Dammit,
Sam! I was frantic over that gun and you know it! We tore the house
apart looking for it. I even called Bonnie and begged for her to give
it back. What did she tell me?"
"She
told you she hadn't taken your stupid gun and to stop calling her."
"Exactly!
I'm not that devious, Sam."
"That's
pretty well true, Brock."
"And
I'm not that smart."
"No,
I'd have to say you're not."
"And
Amy Carmichael sure as shit isn't worth that kind of trouble!"
Sam
looked up at the mirror helplessly and shrugged. I was pissed now.
Even my best friend thought I'd killed the guy. Did they check
alibis? Did they even know when Tack died? I had a rock, solid alibi
from seven in the morning until ten o'clock at night. The only time I
wasn't with someone was on my drive to and from work and the short
time I was home before the police showed up. I'd had it. I was tired
of pretending there was no one behind that glass. I got up, walked
over and rapped on it.
"Can
I ask something? When did Tack get himself killed? Because if you've
bothered to check, I was at work. I've been around people all day
long. I didn't even go take a piss without there being someone else
in the bathroom. So when am I supposed to have killed him? Hmm?"
I rapped loudly on the glass. "Someone want to tell me that?
Huh?"
I
pounded on the glass, making it shake. Sam came up behind me, taking
me by the shoulders. I almost hit him, but I stopped myself in time.
My hand was in a fist, but I didn't raise it against him.
"Sam, dammit, I just want to go home. I can't help you with this. If I
had killed him, would I be stupid enough to do it with my
great-great grandfather's gun and leave it where it could be found?
Do you really think I'm that big an idiot?"
"You
just said you weren't smart enough to plot his death."
"But
a stunt like that falls into the Moron Category! You people are
harassing me and the real killer could be long gone. Why don't you
stop wasting my time and yours and let me go home?"
The
door opened and in walked the Evil Bobbsey Twins again. I'd already
forgotten their names and didn't care. They'd switched positions on
me. Mr. Right was now Mr. Left.
"You're
one cool customer, Mr. Parnell. I'll give you credit for that,"
Mr. Right (formerly Mr. Left) said.
"Look."
I sighed patiently, trying hard to keep my temper. "I told you
everything I know. I don't have a clue who killed him, but it wasn't
me. It could have been anyone from the mailman to the guy who sells
shoes at the mall. I don't know and I really don't give a shit. I
didn't like Tack Carmichael, but I'm sure as hell sorry he's dead
now."
"You
said earlier you didn't care if he was dead," Mr. Left (formerly
Mr. Right) said.
"That
was before I got blamed for it. I'm sorry he's dead now, because it's
inconvenient as hell."
"A
man's dead, Mr. Parnell," the current Mr. Right said. "And
all you have to say is that it's inconvenient?"
"Yeah.
So?" I held out my hands and tossed my head like I gave a damn.
"Even beyond the grave, Tack's figured out a way to make my life
miserable. If the stupid prick was still alive, I'd kick his ass.
I've said everything I'm going to say. Get me a damn lawyer, lock me
up, or let me go home. Your choice. But if you keep this shit up any
longer, I'll slap you with harassment charges and make damn sure
someone gets raked over the coals with a false arrest charge. I don't
start shit, gentlemen, but I sure as hell will finish it."
"Is
that what you did with Tack Carmichael?" The Mr. Left said. "Did
he start something and you finished it?"
I
sat down, crossing my arms and glaring at them. "You people are
morons," I said grumpily. "Inbred, mother licking morons. I
want my lawyer. I'm not saying another word."
"You're
no longer willing to cooperate, Mr. Parnell?"
I
gave Mr. Right a patient look and smiled pleasantly, but I didn't say
anything. That would be interpreted as a big no. The door opened
again and in walked the beauty queen.
"Cut
him loose, boys."
©
2015 Dellani Oakes
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