Are You Nuts? by Mark Richard Zubro Read Free Book Online Page B

that had required new schools had forced them to build a new police station. Due to cost overruns, environmental lawsuits, weather delays, and bureaucratic snafus, it might not be finished until the middle of the next century. One forlorn, windowless wall was up. The builder seemed to have matched perfectly the dirty-yellow, grime-encrusted bricks of the original. Three of the mayor’s opponents had filed a lawsuit accusing him of mismanagement of the construction.
    Shattered glass, broken bottles, and rusted beer cans decorated the ground from the heaps of dirt near the new edifice to the unmown lawn and scraggly bushes around the old building. Inside, the first floor continued the ugliness scheme begun outside. Chips of paint peeled off the walls. Scratches and nicks beyond counting scored the solid-mahogany admitting counter. The smell of mold and mildew struck offensively. The windows were open, but no breeze stirred to relieve the beastly humidity. What had been pleasant at home amid the fields and trees became oppressive here in the confining enclosure. Five in the morning felt as awful as high noon. Strips of tape with dead bugs clotted on them hung from the ceiling.
    The few times I’d been in the station recently, the same cop seemed to be working the admitting desk. He saw me and carefully put down his paperback book Total Blather by Daisy Merdette. With loud grunts and groans suggesting he would die if forced to move faster than slow motion, he stood up, hitched his belt over his sixty-year-old paunch, and harrumphed over to the counter. Retirement had to be a day or two away. The only fan in evidence sat in the middle of his desk. It was small but aimed directly at his dry armpits.
    I asked for Frank Murphy. He and I used to work together with whacked-out teens when he was in the juvenile division. He’d been in homicide the past few years. During that time we had seen much less of each other, but he was still a friend and the only contact I had in the department. I doubted if he’d be in at this hour, but it was worth a try.
    Frank was not available, and I would not be able to see the prisoner. They were processing her. I desperately wanted to know what had happened. Meg was probably less than fifty feet away, and I couldn’t speak to her.
    Unable to see Meg, I said, “I’m looking for Agnes Davis, a friend of mine.”
    â€œShe arrested too?”
    â€œNo. She’s a mutual friend. She called me from here.”
    â€œWe don’t keep a record of friends’ phone calls.”
    â€œWhere do friends of arrested people usually make phone calls from?”
    He pointed down a gloomy corridor.
    I finally found Agnes in a waiting room with two pop machines that both had out-of-order signs. The dingy space smelled like burnt coffee. Two of the overhead lights blinked on and off at random intervals. Outside the pale, streaked window early gray dawn was breaking. We were the only ones in the waiting area. The rest of the friends of the criminals of River’s Edge, like sensible people, were home in bed. As I walked into the humid holding room, Agnes stood up from a folding chair. She hugged me.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “A million thank-yous.”
    In her early seventies, she was usually sprightly and lively. This morning her shoulders slumped, her hair was wildly askew, and every furrow on her face looked like a deep scar. We sat on a bench worn down by the butts of offenders for perhaps a hundred years.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    â€œMeg told me the story before the police arrested her. Blenkinsop got bashed with a Smith’s Comprehensive Encyclopedia .”
    â€œWhy have they arrested Meg?”
    â€œDuring the PTA meeting tonight, things were said and threats were made. Worse, they found her purse next to the dead body. Much worse, they have her fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
    â€œCan you give me all the details from the