Revelations by Laurel Dewey

unable to speak my own name and these fine people would still keep me around!”
    “Then stick around for another few seasons,” Weyler stressed.
    “10-74, my friend,” he said, using the 10-code for the word, “No.” “ It’s time . I see the writin’ on the wall. I’m old hat.” Bo ran his fingers across his sparse comb over. “Eleven days and I’m outta here. Day after Easter. Jesus resurrected and so will I! I can’t wait to retire. I’m gonna sleep for weeks. I love to sleep. The only drawback is, you can’t enjoy it fully since you’re unconscious.” Jane wasn’t sure if Bo was nuts or just pleasantly eccentric. He turned away, letting out a stiff breath. “You know, Vi’s cuttin’ out too. She’s sixty-five. Takin’ the dole and ditchin’ this place.”

    Weyler turned to Jane. “Vi has been with Bo since his first day in Midas. She’s his right arm…”
    “Right arm, left arm, right leg, left leg, ears, eyes and lungs,” Bo quickly interjected, his breathing sounding shallow to Jane. “I couldn’t see my way clear without her!” His voice was desperate, like a man clutching onto a sinking life rope.
    “What are you going to do?” Weyler asked.
    “Florida coast,” Bo touched the edge of a bright yellow folder on his desk. “Warm, you know? Lookin’ forward to it.” Jane watched as he pulled a page over the yellow folder, covering it completely. It was a gestural extension of shame—a literal covering up of what he was saying. Bo’s mind seemed to drift momentarily.
    “I didn’t think you liked the humidity or the ocean.”
    Bo looked up at Weyler, lost in a private moment. “Yeah, well, we all gotta make the hard choices in life, Beanie.” Jane noted that Bo continued to call Weyler “Beanie.” Obviously, it was a term of endearment but what did it signify? Weyler might have been considered a beanpole in stature in his youth when Bo and he were FNGs…”fucking new guys.” Jane noted a moment of sadness coming from Bo, only to be quickly buried and replaced with a back to business approach. “I got a shit pot of crap to go over with you.” He spoke only to Weyler, making a point to ignore Jane with his body language. He proceeded to unearth sundry pieces of paper—all protected in clear, plastic evidence bags—and a book, also placed inside a clear bag. “The day after little Juice Box’s disappearance, his folks found this in their mailbox.” Bo handed Weyler a book, clearly leaving Jane out of the discussion.
    “Little Juice Box?” Jane questioned in a confused manner.
    Bo wedged the cigar into the corner of his mouth. “Juice Box Jake Van Gorden,” Bo replied, never looking at Jane. “I look at him and I think of a juice box. Small kids drink them. Jake is small for his age. He’s like one hundred and twenty pounds and a song. It follows. You got a problem with that?” Bo snuck a
chary eye toward Jane.
    Jane wasn’t sure if the song was a short song, but she wasn’t about to ask Bo to decipher his odd verbiage. “No problem, Bo. It’s perfectly normal.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm.
    Bo looked at Weyler. “You put up with this shit from her?”
    Weyler would have none of it. “Getting back to the clues?”
    “Inside that book was a sympathy card,” Bo handed the card to Weyler, “sealed and addressed only to BAWY.” Jane reached for it but he laid the white envelope encased in a plastic evidence bag on the desk in front of Weyler.
    “Been dusted for prints, I assume?” Jane asked, irritated.
    “Yes,” Bo replied in an over-the-top manner, “and we found nothin’ so he wore gloves when he touched it. Same thing with the book.”
    “Find any DNA on the envelope flap?” Jane wasn’t about to back down.
    Bo let out an exasperated sigh. “10-74. It’s a peel ’n’ stick flap.”
    “Whoever did this knew his DNA could be found on the flap from his saliva and thought ahead of time to buy self-sealing envelopes,” Jane