Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator (13 page)

Mom looks shocked that I said “shit” to a police officer. As if they haven’t heard worse. I continue.

“I’m telling you, we’re lucky. This might not have been a violent crime this time, but maybe it will be next time. Let’s stop this freak before things get really bad here.” They look at me
with a little more respect. But they aren’t exactly calling in the pros. They think my imagination is just getting the best of me. I know that isn’t true, but I also know I can’t change their minds. The Berry Ridge Police Department forensics team isn’t coming. There is only one thing to do. I have to take charge. I have to process this crime scene myself.

It really
isn’t
like it is on TV. That much is true. I head up to the attic, even though Mom keeps telling me to forget it and go to bed. I do
not
want to forget it. And I don’t want to talk about it. I want to look at the room. Problem is, first of all, real life is messy as hell. Most of us don’t have things so organized that you can tell if a single hair is out of place. The attic is always filled with boxes and junk, and
somebody
never puts things back where they belong anyway. The way I live, every day looks like a crime scene. Every room looks like it’s been broken into. It’s like I’m mugging
myself
. You see my point.

The point of entry, at least, is clear enough. The attic window is still open. The intruder simply climbed the elm outside, jumped over to the roof, and crawled in through the window. I’m poking around, trying not to disturb anything, but it’s impossible. I keep tripping over boxes, and it’s impossible to tell if anything has been messed with. I’m trying to think like a criminal. What did he want? Why was he here? Was he on his way downstairs to slit our throats in our sleep? If so, why did he seem to be ransacking these boxes? It’s hard to focus. I am tired. And I am scared. And I am angry. It makes it hard to concentrate. This is probably why you wouldn’t ask a detective to investigate his own attempted murder. It’s clear what I need. I need my sidekick. I need Anoop.

It’s well after midnight, but I call him anyway. This is what friends are for, right? You can be in the middle of a big fight and it can be past midnight, but if you really need them, you can call. The phone rings and rings and he does not pick up. But I am not worried. I call again. No pickup, but I’m still not worried. We long ago made a pact that no matter what is going on, if one of us calls three times you
have
to pick up. You just have to. You can be taking a bath or be on the toilet or double-cupping the most beautiful boobs in the world—you have to stop and answer the phone if the other one calls three times in a row. I often imagined the situation in which it might happen, but I never imagined that it actually would happen. I call the third time and okay, I do start to get worried after a few rings. But Anoop, that beautiful bastard, picks up. He sounds tired.

“Hello?” he says.

“Hey, what took you so long to pick up?” I ask. “Were you double-cupping some beautiful boobs?”

“Just my own,” he says. “Also, it’s the middle of the night and I thought you hated me.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“You told me that you hated me. Plus, you were avoiding me.”

“You were avoiding me!”

“Whatever. What’s going on? Did you just call to make up?”

“I wish,” I say. “Some crazy stuff went down tonight at Langman Manor.” I tell him the whole story. I tell him everything that’s gone down since we last talked. I catch him up on the stuff with Jacques and how Hairston helped me. I tell him about the break-in, the cops, all of it. He seems a little annoyed that I called
Hairston and not him to help find Jacques’s criminal history and address. But he gets over it. Good friend.

“A real crime,” he says. “Hot damn.”

“I know!”

“Is anything missing?”

“Yes,” I say. “Dad’s treasure.”

“The
Playboys
?” he asks. “Lisa Baker, Playmate of the Year for 1967? She
is
hot, but you’d think the thief could probably get most of his porn online …”

“The coins!” I yell.

“The thief absconded with them?” he asks.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

“Only because you won’t read that SAT prep book I loaned you.”

“No, I mean, I know what that word means—it just doesn’t make any sense that some random thief would know how valuable they are. Or even where the coins were situated.”

“ ‘Situated’! Nice! You did read the book!”

“I skimmed it,” I say. There is a pause. “So what do we do now?”

“Listen,” Anoop says. “I’d come over there right now and analyze the balls out of that crime scene, but my parents would kill me. It’s late. Tomorrow I’ll be at your place at quarter of.”

“Quarter of what?”

“Quarter of eight in the morning,” he says.

“There’s an eight in the
morning
?”

“Be there or be dead,” he says.

“Right on,” I say. “Right on.”

The doorbell sings an annoying song, bright and early. I roll out of bed, grab some clothes off the floor, and stumble to the door to let Anoop in. Only it’s not
just
Anoop. TK is there too for some unfathomable reason. He looks tired. His jumpsuit is rumpled, and even though he’s wearing a baseball hat, his bed head is apparent. He has a Styrofoam cup in each hand, sipping alternately from the left and then the right. He barely looks up to say hello to me as I open the door and invite them in.

“What the hell is he doing here?” I mutter out of the side of my mouth.

“I can hear you,” TK says. He takes a sip.

“Well, at least you were considerate enough to get me a coffee.” I reach over to take one of the foam cups. TK narrows his already narrow eyes and violently points his elbows up at me to protect the coffee cups. It is a move that reminds me of a documentary I had seen about prison life late one night—it is like I am a fellow con trying to steal his lunch at San Quentin.

“This is not for you,” he says in a quiet but firm voice.

“What the hell?” I say. “You got one for Anoop and yourself but not for me? Thanks a lot, TK.”

Anoop laughs a pissy laugh and says, “Guess again, Guy.”

“What?” I say.

“That second coffee is not for me either,” Anoop says.

“You got two coffees for yourself, TK? What the hell? Why are you always so tired? Yeah, and don’t tell me research.”

“It
is
research,” TK says. “And this isn’t a second coffee.” He holds up the cup in his left hand. “It’s tea.”

I furrow my brow. He doesn’t look at me, so I narrate: “Guy furrows his brow.”

TK continues. “It’s research to test the effectiveness of various caffeine delivery systems. I’ve tried coffee. I’ve tried tea. Now I’m trying an admixture based on alternating sips between the two. I’m trying to figure out the ideal formula to deliver maximum alertness.”

“And what do your findings indicate thus far?” I say.

“I’m getting some interesting results,” he says. “But there is one problem with this type of research.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “What is that?”

He holds up both cups. “No hands free for taking notes.”

“You need a research assistant,” I say. “Maybe MF is looking for a job.”

“I don’t think she’d be interested,” he says.

“Me neither,” I say. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with TK. He seems all right if a little—okay, a lot—weird.
We’re all weird, some of us just hide it better than others. Those who hide it the best are very often the weirdest
.

“So what’s the plan, then?” I ask. “Figure out some super-mix of coffee-and-tea hybrid you can bottle and sell for millions?”

He shrugs. “I’m not into it for the money. I’m just in it for the research.”

“Okay, listen, you nerds,” Anoop says, which is hilarious. “We have some work to do here.”

“I’m up, aren’t I? And seriously: what is TK doing here?”

“We could use some help.”

“Yeah,” TK says. “I’m not really sure what kind of help you need. Anoop wouldn’t tell me anything. I hope you don’t need help moving a fridge or something. I sort of hurt my back.”

“I do not want to know how you hurt your back,” I say.

“Moving a fridge,” he says, narrowing his eyebrows. “What else?”

“Dude, you better give me one of those cups,” I say.

“I need them for my—”

“If you say ‘research,’ I’m going to punch you in your Polish balls.”

“Hey,” TK says. “What’s wrong with being Polish? Copernicus was Polish.”

“Copernicus loved the Polish sausage, that’s for sure.”

“Now we are going to have a problem if you bad-mouth Copernicus.”

“TK, you’re so weird. Who cares if I talk about Copernicus?”

“Copernicus was a revolutionary genius. The modern heliocentric cosmology
began
with Copernicus.”

“Yeah, well, he also was a giant dork who never got laid.”

“Who cares if he was?”

“Wow, TK, I don’t care if Copernicus got laid. I just feel like breaking your balls. Relax.”

“Well, he did get laid. He had a bunch of kids.”

“Fine. Copernicus was totally a massive stud who loved to hand out the Polish sausage. Fine.”

“Guys,” Anoop says. “I hate to break into what is clearly the stupidest conversation I’ve ever heard in my life and possibly in all of human history, but we have things to do.”

“Yeah,” TK says. “What
do
we have to do?”

“I was being respectful,” Anoop says to me. “I figured I wouldn’t tell him anything you didn’t want me to tell him.”

Great. Now I have to tell TK that my house was broken into. I mean, it’s probably public knowledge, but it feels embarrassing. I decide to keep it brief. “Someone broke into my house last night,” I say. “The cops didn’t do shit. Anoop is going to help me take some prints upstairs. You’re welcome to help, I guess.”

“Sweet!” TK says. “Real-crime time!” I roll my eyes. Anoop goes for a high five. It’s maybe a bit rude, but I leave him hanging.

We head up to the attic. I don’t even bother to explain to Mom what we’re doing. Could she possibly understand? I highly doubt it. Luckily, she doesn’t ask.

“Man,” TK says. “It’s a mess up here.”

“Pardon me for not meeting your standard of housekeeping,” I say. “As I said, someone broke in here last night.”

“Did they ransack the crap out of the place?”

“Not really,” I say. “It was always kind of a mess up here.”

“So, what was stolen?” TK asks. “Anything?”

I typically make a habit of not telling anyone that we have thousands of dollars of sunken treasure in the attic, but it doesn’t seem to matter much since it’s gone now anyway. “Some coins,” I say. “Some very valuable Spanish coins my dad found when he was deep-sea diving a long time ago.”

“Sunken treasure,” Anoop says.

“Whoa,” TK says.

“Yeah,” I say. “And the thing is—hardly anyone knew he had them. He never talked about it outside the family.”

“It seems like the thief knew just what he was looking for,” TK says. “There are plenty of valuables up here untouched.”

“I guess so,” I say, looking around the room. There are various items from Dad’s life—small statues, the birth spoon, antiques, and even some jewelry. “None of this stuff is worth anything near what those coins are worth.”

“Exactly,” TK says. “But none of that would be inherently apparent to your typical middle-of-the-night cat burglar. He wouldn’t know those coins are valuable but this other crap isn’t.”

“Inherently,” I say. “Did Anoop loan you that SAT book too?” TK just wrinkles his eyebrows at me.

“Where do we start?” Anoop says. “I’m not sure we can get prints off any of this stuff.” He waves his hand at the wreck of the room.

“Do the window,” TK says. “That’s how he entered, right?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I wish you would have told me what we were doing, Anoop,” TK says. “I would have brought some rubber gloves.” Anoop smiles, waggles his eyebrows, and pulls a rubber glove out of his pocket.

“That will never not be weird,” I say. He laughs. TK snaps the glove on and walks over to the window. He opens it with his gloved hand and steps outside, onto the roof.

“I imagine he climbed that tree,” he says, pointing down. “Don’t you have an alarm?”

“We have one, but we never use it,” I say. I feel like he’s going to chide me for that, but he doesn’t. He just leaps over to the tree. It’s a pretty impressive move.

“So I’m the intruder,” he says. “I just climbed this tree. I jump to here—” He hops over to the roof. “And I land like this.” His hand almost presses into the wall of the attic, but he stops himself. “Especially in the dark,” he says, “it would be almost impossible
not
to touch the wall right about here. I think that will be an easier place to fingerprint than the window itself. That’s probably been touched lots of times.”

“Just like Anoop’s mother,” I say, sticking my head out the window. TK rolls his eyes. “Sorry,” I say. “Force of habit. But seriously. Great work. That’s really awesome.”

“So we just need to get some fingerprint supplies and print right around this area,” he says, circling his finger in the air. Anoop does that thing with his eyebrows again.