Can
you solve this mini-mystery?
THE NUMBERS GAME ![]() By Herschel Cozine
Gladys, my mother-in-law, has
been a permanent fixture in
our household, having moved in after her divorce ten years ago. Has it only been ten years? Gladys takes a keen interest in
my work as a police
detective, taking it upon herself to solve my cases for me. It makes me look good at
headquarters, but I
have to live with her superior attitude.
It may be a small price to pay, but it is another
aggravation in our
somewhat strained relationship.
She took an immediate interest
in my latest case. I had arrived home after
spending the last several hours
investigating a fatal shooting in a tough neighborhood noted for
violence. The
victim was a teenage boy. “Did you talk to him before he
died?” Gladys asked. “Yes,” I said.
“I
asked who shot him. All
he could tell me
is that the boy’s name was ‘Butch.’ He didn’t know his last name, or
where he
lived.” “Did he say anything else?” “He said he couldn’t remember
the boy’s telephone number.” “It’s strange he would know it
in the first place,” Gladys
said, plumping her well-fed body down on the sofa. “Not at all,” I said.
“The kids in that neighborhood may not know each
other’s full name or
even his real name. But
with smart
phones these days, they always know the phone numbers.
They hardly talk to one another face to face
anymore. I don’t
think they would be
able to communicate if they didn’t have their phones.” “And he said he couldn’t
remember the attacker’s phone
number?” I nodded.
“He said,
‘Phone number. I
forgot.’ It was the
last thing he said before he
died.” I let out a huge sigh.
“So here I am with a killer known only as ‘Butch.’ There must be a hundred or
more kids named
Butch. No address. No last name.
No phone number.
And no
witnesses. At least
there are no
witnesses who will talk. They
don’t like
cops down there and they aren’t about to rat on each other no matter
how
serious the crime is.” Gladys was not listening.
I could tell by the look in her beady eyes that she
was having one of
her famous flashes of insight. But
I had
no idea what I had said or done to precipitate it. “What a strange thing to say,”
she said. “What do you mean?” “Phone number.
I
forgot.” “What’s strange about it?” “I should think he would say,
‘I forgot phone number’.” I scowled in annoyance.
“What difference does it make?
The kid was dying.
He was having
a hard time talking at all. And
he
wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar to begin with.” Gladys pointed a finger.
“As usual you overlook little details.
This could be important.” “I don’t see how,” I murmured,
too low, I hoped for Gladys
to hear. “This
isn’t going to
be easy. I’ll spend
the next week or
more scouring the neighborhood looking for Butch.
I won’t even know if I find him.
No one will talk to me, and I wouldn’t
believe them if they did. It’s
hopeless.” “You’re the one who’s
hopeless,” Gladys said. “You
must have flunked Detecting 101 at the
police academy.” “What are you talking about?” I
asked Gladys stood up, the pillow she
was sitting on clinging to
her like a malignant growth. “Oh, father of my grandchild
and husband of my daughter, it
pains me to say this. But
you weren’t
cut out for this type of work.” She picked up a pad and pencil
and wrote something on
it. Ripping off the
page, she handed it
to me. “Call this number.
Unless I miss my guess you’ll have your man.” She started for the door.
“Call me when dinner is ready, Sherlock.” How
did Gladys know the boy’s phone number?
Please click here to reveal the answer. Copyright © 2016 Herschel Cozine. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission of the author is prohibited. OMDB! and OMDB! logos are trademarks of Over My Dead Body! Return to Fiction. Return to Over My Dead Body! Online. |