Happy Policeman Read Free

water, its surface smooth as glossy olive paper, rose a stand of pines. Beyond that was the Line, its paisley clashing with the sky’s powder-blue horizon.
    DeWitt walked inside the convenience store and stopped. A yellow dog had dragged a family-sized bag of Lay’s potato chips from a shelf, had torn it open and was feasting. Golden flecks were stuck to the dog’s pink nose. The retriever looked up, still domesticated enough for guilt.
    “Get!” DeWitt hissed.
    The dog slunk out the door.
    DeWitt walked the center aisle and picked up a pack of Twinkies. “Curtis?”
    The counter was empty, the cash register open. “Curtis? You in back?” Down the next aisle DeWitt pulled a can of Coke from the cooler. He popped the top and took a long, burning gulp. The Coke was so cold, it made his sinuses ache. He tore open the edge of the Twinkies package with his teeth and took a bite of greasy cake. “Curtis?”
    No one answered. DeWitt put down the Twinkie and walked across the yard to the house.
    Curtis answered his knock. The mayor’s round face was puffy with sleep, and his receding hair stuck up in brown explosions. He was still in his bedclothes. Fighting a smile, DeWitt studied the pajamas. They were cotton and had faded blue sheep on them.
    “Dog was in the stock. You got a mess back there.”
    “Dog can have it.” Curtis walked into the kitchen.
    DeWitt followed. “You seen Loretta’s kids today?”
    “Nope.”
    In Curtis’s sink dirty plates sprouted like Melmac fungus. Creature-from-the-Black-Lagoon dishwater made a high-tide line on the stainless steel. “When’s the last time you seen ‘em?”
    “Why?”
    “Well, they hang around here a lot, don’t they? Fishing and all? You know of anything Hubert Foster could have had against Loretta?”
    Curtis plucked a cracked mug from the sink and poured himself some coffee from a dented pot. “No. Want a cup?”
    DeWitt’s mouth twitched. “Nuh-uh.”
    “Why the third degree?”
    This time the words came easier. “Loretta’s been murdered.”
    Curtis spasmed, spilling coffee. “Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.” His eyes were so wide that the whites haloed the brown irises. He looked at DeWitt and then at the floor. It was hard to distinguish the new coffee stain from the historical. “You say murdered? Who the hell done it?”
    “Don’t know yet.”
    “Shit’s gonna hit the fan, DeWitt. Man. Oh, man. I need some.” Curtis looked up fast. “You want a little?”
    The shit was going to hit the fan. And there was nothing DeWitt could do about it. “Hell, why not?” He slugged down the rest of his Coke and tagged after Curtis.
    In the cramped bathroom, weak sunlight struggled to penetrate a high, dirty window. As Curtis locked the door, DeWitt perched in the meager glow at the edge of the tub.
    Curtis dug his hand into a cracked ginger jar. “How’d they do it?”
    “Huh?”
    “How’d they kill her?”
    “Don’t know that exactly, either. But she was naked. It was terrible.”
    Curtis laughed, then clapped a censorious hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Poor Loretta was just butt-ugly.”
    “Yeah, well . . . it was awful that way, too.”
    Rolling a scrap of corn husk into a cylinder, Curtis picked up a greasy box of kitchen matches, lit the joint, and took a toke before passing it.
    DeWitt sucked smoke, hitched it deep. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
    It was an old joke, and Curtis ignored it. He lowered the seat of the commode and sat. The bathroom was so small that the two men’s knees touched. When they got to the end of the joint, Curtis lit another and handed it to DeWitt.
    “How come you don’t know how they killed her?”
    DeWitt inhaled the reply. “Weapon.”
    Curtis studied the burning end of the joint critically before taking another drag. “I mean, was she stabbed or strangled or what?”
    “Her throat was tom apart.”
    Curtis nodded sagely. “Werewolves.”
    A whoop of laughter. DeWitt slipped off the tub and