A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi

“stop” gesture, a scared look in his eyes replacing the hostility he’d shown moments earlier. Again my hand was clamped under his chin, holding his face high.
    â€œListen asshole, we just had a murder go down on our property, maybe you heard about it. So we’re a little nervous about strangers waiting in the dark on our front doorstep. Now cut the bullshit and tell us what you want.” I loosened my grip on his neck. “Okay?”
    He nodded as well as he could, eyes bouncing nervously between me and Deirdre. I let him go.
    Sheehan cleared his throat and rubbed the front of his neck, as if he were checking the closeness of a shave. He straightened the collar of his polo shirt and jerked his shoulders forward to readjust the fit. He reminded me of someone trying to save face after losing a bar fight.
    â€œI’m a reporter for the Sun ,” Sheehan finally said. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday.” He turned to Deirdre and asked if we could talk inside. Maybe he thought she’d be more hospitable, despite the kick in the ribs.
    He was wrong. “I don’t think this conversation is going to be long enough to bother,” Deirdre told him.
    â€œWe don’t know anything more than you do,” I said. “And we’ve got enough problems without talking to a reporter about it.”
    â€œWell then perhaps I can enlighten you with some information I’ve run across,” he offered hopefully, seeing an opening. “Then you can give me your comments, maybe shed some light on a few things.”
    â€œWho have you been talking to?” I asked. “Do the cops know who that boy was?”
    Deirdre took a step toward Sheehan.
    â€œWho was he?” she demanded, her eyes big and dark in the faint porchlight.
    Sheehan nodded toward our front door. “You have something cold to drink?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It’s hot out here.”
    â€œIt’s going to get hotter if you don’t start talking,” I said through clenched teeth. “You’re beginning to piss me off.”
    â€œTell us what you know or leave,” Deirdre said. “We’re not gonna play any games with you.”
    Sheehan finally relented, shaking his head with frustration. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned his attention toward me, suddenly all business. “I plugged your name into Lexis and got a hit. You had quite a little escapade thirty-odd years ago, didn’t you?”
    â€œSo what?” I replied. “It’s never been a secret. You think you’re Woodward and Bernstein, coming up with that?”
    â€œWell how ’bout this, then? Your old bunk-buddy and his unfortunate demise.”
    â€œWhat are you two talking about?” Deirdre demanded.
    â€œOh, you didn’t know about that?” he asked Deirdre, then addressed me. “Keeping secrets from the old lady, huh?”
    Silence for a moment, Sheehan and I regarding each other coolly, before Deirdre cut in. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she told him with a kind of desperation, then turned to me. “This is getting old. Maybe he should leave.”
    â€œLook, I’m sorry,” Sheehan said. “I guess I went about this the wrong way—”
    â€œYou sure did,” I interrupted, picking up the tape recorder and returning it in pieces. “You heard my wife. Scram.”
    Fuming, Sheehan backpedaled toward the street. “You want me to dredge your whole story up again in the newspaper? I will, you know.”
    â€œAnd if you didn’t, somebody else would,” I replied. “Unless you’re the only reporter with access to a computer archive.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t it be better if the first story to come out with this angle put you in a positive light?” Sheehan responded, stopping on the lawn. “I can slant it any way I want. And