You Know Who Killed Me by Loren D. Estleman

with some verses in between, and they sounded like a ripsaw going through knotty pine. I swapped Kay for something more contemporary, built a drink, a silly thing of gin with some mint leaves left over from a recipe that hadn’t been worth the prep. The drink wasn’t either; it tasted like Christmas punch marinated in last year’s fruitcake. I poured the rest into the sink and switched to Scotch.
    I wasn’t celebrating; not the fact that I had work or my own damn good samaritanship. If Adams got the job, he’d probably lose his temper sometime, deck a union lobbyist, get himself tanked, and cuss me out for providing the bad break. I drank because I hadn’t had a drink since beer for breakfast.
    The ice jingled in the glass. I had a first-class case of the shakes. What I really wanted was a pill.
    I got as far as the telephone to call my teenage connection. The card belonging to the private therapist was still there poking out from under the standard. I finished my drink over the Free Press, reading about a city councilman under hack for inappropriate relations with a teenage boy; had another, listened to some more music, and went to bed. They say we dream every time we sleep, but as usual, they lie—a fact for which I was grateful. I’d had my share of nightmares in rehab.

 
    SEVEN
    Operator: Sheriff’s tip line. What’s your information?
    Caller: I know who killed that Gates guy.
    Operator: Yes, sir.
    Caller: I don’t need a reward.
    Operator: That’s refreshing.
    Caller: It’s Fred Gudgast, works quality control at Ford River Rouge.
    Operator: Why do you think he killed Mr. Gates?
    Caller: He’s murdered at least three people at the plant and got away with it. He’s one of those serial killers, you know?
    Operator: Have you any evidence?
    Caller: He’s a miserable piece of shit, how’s that for evidence?
    Operator: Does Mr. Gudgast even know Mr. Gates?
    Caller: Serial killers don’t have to know their victims.
    So you’re just guessing?
    Fuck you, lady.
    Thank you for calling.
    I let it go on like that while I washed out my coffee cup, then turned off the tape player.
    You had to feel sorry for operators of 911 and tip lines:
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œI can’t remember where I parked my car in the lot.”
    â€œTry pushing the button on your key fob, ma’am.”
    â€œI can’t; I lost my keys.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œI got my hand stuck in a vending machine.”
    â€œHow’d that happen, sir?”
    â€œFucking thing stole my dollar.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œThis car in front of me’s had his blinker on for three miles.”
    â€œWhy not pass it?”
    â€œCan’t. What if he decides to pull out finally?”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œWhat’s the capital of Brazil?”
    â€œYoung man, get off the line at once.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œI flipped the self-cleaning lever by mistake and now my chicken’s burning.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œMy next-door neighbor never closes his curtains. Every night I can see everything he’s got; believe me, it’s no treat.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œI can’t keep the raccoons out of my garbage.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?’
    â€œThese directions don’t make any sense.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œI need the number of the Wal-Mart pharmacy.”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œHow do I program my TiVo?”
    â€œWhat’s your emergency?”
    â€œI’m lost in a corn maze.”
    And people wondered why they ran out of sympathy.
    *   *   *
    Stay away from the wife, Ray Henty had said. But that was when my duties were restricted to playing deejay for people with hunches and