The Opinion of an Expert
The alarm woke me up at eight. I whacked it with my right hand to silence the brass bell. I tried to rub my face to wake up my expression, but my bandaged left hand stopped me. I struggled out of bed and went to get ready for the day. Walt mumbled something and rolled over to sleep until I was done in the shower.
I went to the bathroom and unwound the bandage from my hand. The burn looked better. The blisters weren’t as full as they’d been the night before and the burned skin didn’t throb anymore. I’d have to be careful with it for several more days, but I doubted the hand would scar.
I went through my normal routine and left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist to wake Walt for his shower. I shook my husband gently until he opened his eyes. “Alright,” he said, “I’m awake.”
I worried about the small amount of sleep Walt had. He’d taken the day off, so I thought he should rest some more. “Are you sure you want to get up with me?” I asked.
Walt threw the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. I assumed the fact that Walt had gotten up was all the answer I was going to get. I started to move away to go get dressed. Walt stopped me. He grabbed my hips and held me still in front of him.
Walt pushed me away from the bed far enough so he could slide from his sitting position onto his knees at my feet. He snatched the towel from my waist and let it fall to the floor. Walt nuzzled his face into my soft manhood and low hanging balls. The coarse scratch of his day-old beard pulled at the sensitive skin which hooded my cock.
Walt’s tongue darted from his mouth and lapped at my shower fresh package until my cock stood hard and eager for more attention. He used his left hand to unsheathe the head and suckled at the sensitive tip. I threw my head back and moaned from the sensation.
Walt pushed his right hand between my thighs to get me to spread my legs apart. I did so willingly because I knew what would come next. I looked down at my husband to make certain I was right. I watched as Walt took his mouth from my cock to spit on the first two fingers of his right hand. I reached behind myself to pull my ass open for him. Walt grinned seductively at me as his slick fingers found my hole and started to press inside.
Walt maintained eye contact with me as the first of his thick digits opened my hole. When he started to add the second, the pleasure overwhelmed me. “OH FUCK!” I gasped. Walt went back to sucking me off, and I threw my head back again to moan my pleasure at the ceiling. Want screwed his thick fingers around in my hole and worked my cock with his mouth and left hand.
I tried to hold back my orgasm to make the pleasure last, but I couldn’t. The sensations were too intense. My body tightened and I exploded into my husband’s sucking mouth. He swallowed my load as fast as I gave it to him and licked my overly-sensitive cock as it started to deflate.
I pushed Walt away and stumbled backwards to lean against the wall and catch my breath. Walt stood from the floor and moved to press his solid, pajama clad body against mine. He kissed me gently with his lips closed, then kissed me again more deeply. Walt opened his mouth wide and sealed his lips over mine like he wanted to devour me. His tongue filled my mouth. I tasted the salt of Walt’s mouth and the heady, bitter flavor of my own spend. Walt rubbed his body against mine, broke our kiss, and took a long step back.
“What the fuck?” I asked because my brains were still scrambled from the intensity of what my husband had done for me.
Walt bent to take my wet bath towel from the floor. He tossed it to me and grinned over my reaction. “I’m just reminding you of why you chose me over David.”
I flipped the towel over my shoulders and embraced my husband. I held him tightly and spoke directly to his ear. “I chose you because I love you. I was only ever infatuated with David. You’re my husband. David is nothing more than an old friend who needs my help.”
Walt whispered to me in a small, worried voice. “Does that mean I wasn’t as good as him?”
I tightened my grip on my husband’s body to show my sincerity through physical means. “No, love. David was not better than you. Of all the cocksuckers I’ve known in my life, you’re still the best.”
Walt didn’t say anything for a second. I could tell he was trying to decide if I was serious or not. When he realized I was teasing him, he laughed a hearty belly laugh that shook us both. I released him from my arms to smile back at him. In my peripheral vision, I noticed the bedside clock whose hands stood at twenty-to-nine. Time was getting short. “I’ve got to get dressed and you need to clean up.” I reminded Walt. I leaned in to kiss his mouth once more. “I’ll have to owe you one for this morning.”
Walk chuckled at my promise and his eyes twinkled with rare mischief. “I’ll look forward to it.” He said and hurried to the bathroom to get ready.
I dressed quickly, strapped my gun under my arm, and returned Larry’s quarter to my inside pocket with Ted’s letter. I ran downstairs just in time to meet David who had arrived ten minutes early. I noticed the shiner I’d given him the night before was black and swollen, but he still had use of the eye. I considered that a blessing as I gathered the newspaper from the sidewalk and unlocked the door to Walt’s Special. David followed me into the kitchen and offered to help cook. I handed David the newspaper and guided him to the break table to sit.
“I’ve been too busy to read the paper lately.” I said. “You’d be doing me a favor by catching me up on the headlines.”
The lie I told was a small one, but the falsehood was in the service of a greater good. Walt’s exuberant ‘good morning’ made it clear that he felt challenged by David. I further assumed that Walt would be deeply insulted if he came downstairs to find David cooking in his kitchen. Since Walt and I had reconciled the night before, I had no intention of permitting David to come between us again.
David allowed himself to be sidelined, even though his dubious expression told me that he didn’t believe the reason I gave. He opened the paper and exclaimed over the first headline. “Stalin is dead!” He said.
David poured over the article while I put on my apron and hairnet. I gathered breakfast ingredients from around the kitchen and set them at my workstation. David relayed facts as he read them. “Died of a stroke on the fifth. That was the day I got here. He was seventy-four. They’re going to do a big funeral in Red Square on the nineth. That’s two days from now, on Monday. The new president is someone named Georgy Mal…Mal…Malenkov.”
“Another Georgie.” I commented with a flash of memory for my brother. “I wonder if Georgy Malenkov ever referred to himself as ‘Little Georgy.’” That absurd thought led me to another. I remembered a silly nursery rhyme from my childhood and recited it.
“Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry,
When the girls came out to play,
Georgie Porgie ran away.”
David didn’t comment on my recitation. He skimmed down the news column to look for more facts to relate. He flicked the page with a disappointed finger. “The rest of this is just history, stuff we already know.”
I put a spoonful of lard in a metal pie-plate and rubbed it around with my fingers. When the pie-plate was adequately greased, I rubbed some of the fat into my burned palm to replace the butter I’d washed away in the shower. “Uncle Joe Stalin is dead.” I said, more to myself than to David. “Doesn’t hardly seem possible.”
“God forgive me for saying this,” David said as he refolded the newspaper, “but good riddance. He was a butcher. The Lord will judge him for the crimes he committed against his people.”
I cracked some eggs in a mixing bowl and tossed the shells in the food waste bin. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss old Uncle Joe.” I cautioned my friend. “Stalin was a hard man. He’d have to be to run a country the size of Russia, especially for all that time. I don’t say everything he did was right, but do you think we could have beat the Nazis without him? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”
David was aghast at what he saw as my dismissal of Stalin’s tyranny. “Stalin was a MONSTER!” David exclaimed. “He murdered his own people. He slaughtered and starved millions. He split Europe with the Iron Curtain. Everyone is better off with him gone.”
I shrugged and moved to the sink to wash and peel some potatoes. “I’m not saying that Stalin was a good man, but he was a great one. He’s right there with Roosevelt, Churchill, Mussolini, and Hitler. For good or bad, those five men shaped the world we live in. The only one left now is Churchill. I don’t know if the world is better or worse without Stalin. It will be different, that’s for sure.”
David shook his shocked head. “I don’t understand how you can say the likes of Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin were great.”
I tried to explain myself as I rinsed the peeled potatoes. “They’re not ‘great’ as in good. They’re ‘great’ as in they made a great, big impact on the world. Between them and Tojo over in Japan, they fought a war that changed the world and gave us the modern age.”
David listened to what I said and reflected on it. He didn’t say anything as he considered my words.
The swing door between the kitchen and the dining room opened inward and Walt breezed through it. He greeted David absently and came to offer me another tongue-filled ‘good morning’ kiss. I savored Walt’s kiss and was momentarily surprised at his show of affection. Walt was usually far more reserved in front of people. I wondered if Walt kissed me as a display of love, or as a demonstration of ownership. Either way, I enjoyed the kiss.
Walt broke away from me and looked toward David to offer a second and more attentive ‘good morning.’ He noticed David’s black eye and spoke of it instead. “My goodness, David!” Walt exclaimed. “Did you get into a fight?”
David lied…poorly. I don’t know if he did it to protect me or himself. “I…uh,” he stammered, “I tripped.”
I told the truth for both of us. “He pointed a gun at me, and I socked him.”
Walt bristled and frowned angrily at David. “You pointed a gun at my husband?” He demanded.
Walt’s anger made me feel loved. I appreciated his strong emotion, but I’d already handled the situation and didn’t want to rehash it. I stepped between Walt and David to talk down Walt’s temper. “I dealt with it last night. We’re past it. Alright?”
Walt’s face smoothed and he nodded his agreement. “Yes, alright.”
“Good.” I said and tried to change the subject.
Walt preempted my new topic with one of his own. He eyed David and bumped his shoulder against mine. “I wondered where my jacket went. I saw the note that you borrowed it, but I couldn’t imagine why. It wouldn’t have fit you very well.”
David stood from his chair to run his fingers along the lapel creases of Walt’s jacket. He seemed uncertain, like he expected Walt would insist he surrender the garment. Walt announced he had no such intention. “Wear it with my blessing, David. It looks well on you. Much better than the other one you had on the last time I saw you.”
David sat down again, and I got my chance to change the subject to one which I hoped would last a bit longer. I brought Walt up to date on the news David had read from the paper.
“The world will never be the same.” Walt commented when I told him of Stalin’s passing. “Kind of a shame.”
Walt’s attention shifted from the news to my breakfast preparations. “Quiche?” He asked when he saw the ingredients I’d laid out.
“Yes.” I agreed.
David interrupted our conversation about food. “Mister Stack, how come the death of a tyrant doesn’t make you happy?”
Walt turned from the workstation to face David. He folded his big arms over his deep chest and lowered his contemplative gaze to the floor. “Stalin was a constant, a known quantity. The USSR is the biggest country in the world, the biggest one that matters anyway. China might be bigger, but they keep to themselves. Russia wants to rule the world, and so do we. It’s better to know your enemy than to have to guess about him. We knew Stalin. We could trust him.”
“Trust him?” David demanded incredulously. “Trust Stalin?”
Walt clarified his words. “We could trust him to behave in a certain way. We could trust him to be Joseph Stalin. Now there will be a new man. Maybe several in a row before the Russians find someone strong enough to hold onto power. We won’t be able to trust for a while. The world is a complex place. Strong leaders who remain constant allow us to enjoy stability. Weak men and power struggles lead to chaos. Chaos is bad. I’d rather live in a hostile but stable world than a chaotic one.”
David lifted his giant shoulders in a disappointed shrug. “I just don’t understand.” He admitted.
“Live another ten years.” Walt suggested. “Or maybe age has nothing to do with it. Maybe I’m jaded and cynical. Maybe living through two world wars and a depression has made me that way.” Walt shook his head and lifted his shoulders to shrug without uncrossing his arms. “I don’t know. What I do know is, ‘an evil thing known is best.’ That’s what my father used to say. He taught English Literature at Albright College. What he meant was, ‘better the devil you know.’”
Walt uncrossed his arms and stood from the counter to end the discussion. He halted his movements to add one more thing as an afterthought. I assumed it was Walt’s way to show David that he didn’t hold a grudge for anything that had happened since David arrived. “Please call me ‘Walt.’”
Walt spun toward the ingredients I’d laid out and addressed himself to matters of cooking. “We’ll need more.” He said. “Mister Scofield is here, and he brought another man. Between them and the three of us, that’s five. I think three quiche will give us plenty of food for this morning and there should be enough left over for us to have for breakfast tomorrow.” Walt addressed himself to me. “Love, would you see to the coffee, and I’ll take over here?”
I assented to Walt’s instructions and went to prep the coffee urn. I didn’t mind that Walt had relegated me to coffee duty while he cooked breakfast. Quiche was one of Walt’s specialties. I made it well, but not as well as he did. I also assumed Walt wanted to show off his culinary prowess for David and our guests and that was fine with me.
Just about thirty minutes later, Walt and I served breakfast in the dining room. We laid as formal a table as if the occasion was a seven-course dinner. Walt set out the quiche and fresh orange juice while I set the plates and coffee. Our guests noticed David’s black eye, but they didn’t comment on it.
Alexander Scofield, or Scobie as I introduced him to all present, introduced his companion to the group. The man was the same who had taken over the stakeout from me the night before. “This is Mister James Weaver.” He said.
Weaver, who looked quite tired, corrected Scofield. “Call me, ‘Jimmy.’”
With that out of the way, we all tucked eagerly into our meals. Scofield offered his compliments after his first bite. “Light, fluffy, and delicious, Mister Stack. Quiche is one of my favorites. It’s an absolute shame that Walt’s Special is not open for breakfast. I would come every single day. As things are, I’m here a great many evenings. In all the time you have been open I have never been disappointed.”
Walt basked in the praise. “Thank you, Mister Scofield. Law and I strive to keep the menu interesting.”
Scofield sipped his coffee and raised his cup toward me like he was offering a toast. “To see the Errant Hero of Law and Order in a hairnet and chef’s apron…it’s not a sight I ever thought I’d bear witness to. You, Mister Stack, must be quite a man as well as being an impressive chef.”
I snatched the forgotten hairnet from my head and stuffed it in my pocket. I bumped my shoulder against Walt as a physical gesture of affection. “He’s both.” I said to agree with Scofield.
Walt’s cheeks pinked with adorable embarrassment over the praise which had been directed his way. He said a bashful ‘thanks’ to Scofield and seized the coffee pot to offer everyone a refill.
David leaned closer to Scofield to offer some advice. “Whatever you do, don’t ask for ketchup. Walt scowls when you ask for ketchup.”
“Ketchup!” Scofield gasped, suitably shocked at the suggestion he might ask for such a thing. “I would never! To mask the flavor of this delicacy with something as common as ketchup would be a crime.”
David ducked his head like he’d been scolded, which he had. He went back to his meal and didn’t say another word about condiments. Some little time later breakfast ended. The five of us had demolished all three of Walt’s quiche and most of an urn of coffee. Walt and I did a quick cleanup and returned to the table, ready for Scofield to get down to business. “Tell me again what you saw last night.” He asked.
For the benefit of all who were present, I told the full story of the previous night. I detailed Stan’s original assertion that, on the night of the murder, Ted had gone off with a man named Mel. I told about how David and I had discovered that Stan’s original story had been a fabrication because Mel was already dead and likely buried by the time the corpse which was identified as Ted was killed.
I told the group about Smokey’s misguided idea that Stan was a vandal, a car thief, and a murderer who was connected to the mafia. I gave all of Smokey’s reasons and refuted them with some of my own. I related how David and I chased Stan’s Oldsmobile to the waterfront slum and how we found him in the rowhome at the end of the alley.
David interjected into my speech with an apology to Walt about his station wagon. “I was hard on your Mercury, Walt. I’m sorry. If there’s any damage, I’ll pay for it. I did what I had to do to keep up with Stan.”
Walt graciously accepted David’s apology and dismissed the whole matter with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure the car is fine. I’m glad you drove instead of this one.” Walt said with a nod toward me. “He always complains when he has to drive anywhere. Law talks endlessly about how much he misses the trolley cars.”
“I do miss them.” I objected to the group. “You could get anywhere in the city for a dime.”
Walt grinned a knowing smirk across his wide face. “Yes, love.” He agreed. “Though I seem to remember you never much liked the trolleys when you rode them.” Walt put a mocking scowl on his face and a rasp in his voice to approximate the sound of mine. He grumbled like I do when I utter a simmering complaint about something I dislike. “Miserable, clanking, swaying, creaking, wooden death traps.” He said like he was me.
I opened my mouth to object to my husband’s characterization, but the broad grins on the faces of everyone at the table defeated me before I could say a word of challenge. David made a series of grunting sounds as he tried to stifle snickering laughter at my expense. “Go ahead and laugh.” I grouched at him.
David laughed and raised a broad hand to gesture toward me. “He’s got you, Law. You sound just like that.”
“Like hell I do.” I grumbled as a simmering complaint.
In response to my grumble, Walt smiled, David smiled, Jimmy Weaver who hadn’t seen me in years smiled, and Alex Scofield laughed a wheezing, breathless laugh that sounded like the whinny of a startled horse.
Scofield laughed himself out but continued to grin as he addressed himself to Walt. “Compliments to you, Mister Stack.” He said. “The Law Edwards I knew years ago was volatile and often brutal. No one would have dared to poke fun at him for fear of finding themselves beaten senseless. You must be quite an individual to have been able to tame the beast within the man.”
I felt attacked by Scofield’s words. He was the second person in recent days who’d called me ‘brutal.’ David had been the first. I glanced toward my previous accuser and noticed the swollen shiner of a black eye which I’d given him the night before. I wondered if maybe I had been a monster in the old days. I wondered if I was one still.
Walt came to my rescue like he could sense my inner turmoil. “He didn’t need to be ‘tamed,’ Mister Scofield.” Walt said gently as he moved his left hand on top of my right and held it. “He just needed to be loved.”
Scofield frowned and issued a stumbling apology. “I’m sorry for making light of…I’m sorry for…I apologize for bringing up the distant past. None of us at this table are now who we were then. I should be ashamed of myself for mentioning a time long dead.”
I waved my burned left hand toward Scofield to accept his apology. With us all friends again, I finished the story of the previous night. The final details I shared had to do with Ted and Stan and their sex act. I also shared the presence of Ted’s tattooed ass. “Woody Woodpecker,” I explained, “the tattoo was just Woody’s head. It showed his long orange beak, that silly, wiseass smile of his, and his shock of bright red hair. It’s on the right side of Ted’s right ass cheek.”
Scofield latched onto my mention of the tattoo. He seized a briefcase from the floor next to him and opened it on the tabletop. He selected a manilla folder from within and held it close to his chest so only he could view its contents. Scofield selected a sheet from the folder and drew it out. He handed it to David. I craned my head to see the sheet was a black and white photograph. “Tell me,” Scofield said, “tell me that the buttocks in that photo are not those of Theodore Danton.”
David inspected the glazed photo. I looked as well. The picture was of a badly scraped and dirt-smeared ass. The ass was young and firm. It would have been inviting had it been clean and alive, but it was neither. The reason for the photo was to show the broken handle of a rattan carpet beater which protruded from the anus at the lower center of the ass. The ass in the photo was unmarred by the tattoo man’s needle.
David handed the photo back to Scofield. “It’s not Ted. There’s no tattoo. This butt isn’t even the right shape. Ted’s is more round…fuller. This one is thinner, almost flat.”
Scofield accepted the photo and returned it to his briefcase. He snapped the lid shut and looked around the table like he wanted to assess his audience. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him because he spoke his mind to David. “I find your observation rather striking, Mister Ploughman. It is striking and further proof of your assertion that young Theodore is alive and the man in these photos is some other unfortunate creature. While I am not pleased to see anyone in the condition this poor man is in, because of my association with Lawrence, I am pleased to discover it is not Theodore.”
Before anyone could say another word, two telephone bells rang in sharp unison. The jangle of their metallic shouts split the silence left by the end of Scofield’s speech. Walt looked toward the noise which came from behind the bar while I looked toward the other bell which rang at the hostess’s station. Walt held his hand up. “Probably someone who wants a reservation. They’ll call back during business hours.”
Scofield sprang to his feet. “May I answer it?” He asked. “I shared your telephone number with the investigator who is currently watching Theodore and Stanley. The ringing could very well be him phoning with a report.”
Walt pointed to where the bar telephone was near the cash register behind the bar. Scofield ran to it and snatched up the receiver. In case the caller was an early reservation seeker, Scofield answered the call like he worked for the restaurant. “You have reached Walt’s Special,” he said, “Alexander Scofield speaking. How may I help you?”
Scofield listened to what the party on the line had to say. He lifted his eyes toward Walt and made the motion of a scribbling pencil in the air. Walt understood that Scofield needed something to write with and paper to write on. He pointed down to indicate that Scofield would find what he needed behind the bar.
“Yes,” Scofield said to the telephone, “give me a second.” He squatted behind the bar and stood with a tear-off pad and short, yellow pencil in his hand. He narrated his notes as he wrote them. “Yes,” he said, “I have that. 5th Street and Porter. Middle of the block. You’re in a taproom directly across from an automobile repair establishment. The name on the sign is H&H Auto.”
Scofield shook his head with the telephone receiver against his ear. The gesture was absurd but common enough. To gesture and smile and scowl into a telephone is silly because no one can see those expressions. Many people do it though, me included.
“On no account should you contact the authorities.” Scofield said to admonish a suggestion from the caller. “If our quarry appears to be there for ‘the long haul’ as you say, we should have time to reconvene at your location so we may assess the situation and determine the proper course of action. Remain vigilant. We will see you within the hour.”
Scofield returned the receiver to its cradle and rested his thin hands on his narrow hips. “Quite a fortuitous telephone call.” He announced. “I am rather pleased with the direction in which our efforts are leading. I will tell you about the telephone call in one moment. First, I would like to finish my thoughts from earlier.”
I stood from the table and issued an objection because I’d recognized the street and business name which Scofield had spoken aloud. “Tell us on the way. We’re obviously going to Hank Kellerman’s place. What’s going on there?”
Scofield admonished me for trying to jump ahead of him. He held his thin, long-fingered hands in the air to ask me for patience. “In good time, Errant Hero, all in good time. There is time to get where we need to go and time for an unrushed sharing of information. Please indulge me. Allow me to share my thoughts in my own way.”
I lowered myself into my seat and waited for Scofield to ‘share his thoughts in his own way.’
“It seems we’ve been had.” Scofield said. “We have been had good and proper. The questions for us to answer are ‘who had us’ and ‘why.’” Scofield thumped the top of the bar with the heel of his right hand. “That’s not true. Our first priority is to prove that Theodore Danton is alive. Once we can, the police will have no choice but to dismiss the charge of murder against Lawrence.
“The police could subsequently charge Lawrence with the murder of the dead man, whomever that might be, though I doubt our police force is dim-witted enough for an overreach of that sort. I know for a definite fact that our public prosecutor is not. He would not attempt to go to trial on such a transparently thin case. The judge would laugh him right out of court.”
Scofield tore his sheet of notes from the pad and returned the paper and pencil to their place behind the bar. He pocketed the note and moved to stand behind his chair at the table. “As far as I know, there is nothing to link young Lawrence to the dead man. We don’t know who the corpse was in life, nor how he came to have Theodore’s wallet upon his person. We don’t know who murdered him and why. Those open questions are not for us to answer. Our interest is to exonerate Lawrence, not to solve the other crime.
“The logic on which I am relying to direct my actions is simple.” Scofield counted his points off on his bony fingers. “Our situation is that Lawrence Ploughman has been accused of, and indicted for, the murder of Theodore Danton. The germane fact in answer to the situation is the Errant Hero’s recent discovery that Theodore Danton has not been murdered. Once the germane fact is proven to the relevant authorities, the situation will resolve itself.
“Our best chance to prove the germane fact is to persuade the police to prove it for themselves. We must catch Theodore or his compatriots in the execution of an illegal act and see them arrested for it. Once Theodore is in custody, the authorities will have no choice but to prove and acknowledge his identity.”
David piped up with a good question. “How can they do that?” He asked. “Prove who Ted is, I mean. Law said there would be trouble about proving Ted’s identity.”
Scofield was gratified by David’s question as it allowed him to display his specialized knowledge. He steepled his fingers together in front of himself as he answered. “When they arrest Theodore, the police will process him. Once an individual is taken into custody, the police must formally identify them. For many who are arrested and ‘booked’ into the legal system, the process of identification is a simple one. If the individual already has a criminal record, their name and description will be cross checked against their file. Their file will be complete with fingerprints and a photograph known as a ‘mug shot.’ These in combination will prove the individual’s identity.
“If a person has no criminal record, they are usually identified through the testimony of next of kin. A husband’s wife is called, a child’s parents, an elderly person’s children, and so on. If those are not locally available, the process becomes more complicated. The individual is asked to provide their place of birth. The authorities in that place are then contacted to research the individual’s name and description and to procure any records which may be on file in the city or county offices. Birth certificates can be obtained and consulted, parents questioned, other relatives, etcetera.
“The final step is to forward the individual’s mug shot via airmail for confirmation. Only when the individual is positively identified by the authorities or by blood family, is their identity considered official. This process can take time, and it is costly. It is, however, a necessary part of the legal process. Once Theodore is properly identified, I will file a motion with the court to dismiss the charge of murder against Lawrence.”
David asked another excellent question of Scofield. “Why can’t they do that for the dead man?”
Scofield tilted his head toward David to acknowledge his question. He lowered his hands to the seatback in front of him and leaned his slight weight upon it. “The short answer, Mister Ploughman, is that they should have. Unfortunately for your son, the authorities only research to the extent that there is a question of identification. Because of the presence of Theodore’s wallet on the corpse, and the fact that the dead man’s physical description roughly matches that of Theodore, the police did not think there was a question.”
“I see.” David agreed.
“Good!” Scofield said to celebrate the completion of his narrative. He stood tall out of his leaning posture and clapped his hands once. “Now, the other investigator is waiting for us in a taproom across the street from H&H Auto Repair where Theodore was once employed. The investigator, Harrison Stiles, has reported that Theodore and the mysterious Stanley are in the midst of committing an illegal act. I suggest we adjourn to the taproom with all haste so we may decide what is to be done.”
Since no one had an objection to Scofield’s idea, we gathered ourselves and left. Walt, David, Scofield, and I set off for the nameless tavern. Jimmy Weaver, who had been up for most of the night, left for his home and sleep.
