Murther Most Foul

Good cop smoked Marlboros. He gestured with Marlboros. He talked in great whispy plumes of Marlboro, articulating each word with a smoke ring. Especially when he was mad. Which seemed to be pretty much all the time.

Bad cop sat on a bench at the break room table with a clipboard and a Pilot Razor Point. He wore a gray suit that had been expensive a long time ago and gold-rimmed George Senior spectacles. Oh, and scuffed Florsheim oxblood wingtips. He said very little.

Garthar Admodniak had designated these two officers in his head when they came in the door. He wasn't very clear on the good cop-bad cop thing but he had learned enough from the TV to know that there had to be one of each.

"You expect me to believe that you've never seen this guy in your life?" bellowed good cop.

The corpse lay under a sheet. Garthar had been to two funerals in his life: one closed casket and one open. He had sat far in the back, and attempted to understand that the human he had known was now dead, It didn't seem real at all.

There was no mistaking the deadness of this guy, though. When they pulled back the sheet, Garthar recoiled like he had been hit. The corpse's eyes were open, but they were lifeless. Garthar Agmodniak stared at the sheet, shaking his head.

There was also no mistaking that the dead guy looked exactly like Garthar. Garthar had no blood relatives on this planet. Garthar had never seen this man before.

Good cop was very skeptical.

Bad cop flipped the top sheet on his clipboard and read aloud, "Garthar Admodniak. Maintenance Technician, night shift. Born January 11, 1962. Parents Max and Ann Admodniak, deceased. Two brothers, one sister, all residing in the midwest. Tell me, Mr. Admodniak, are these your brothers?"

He slid two glossy black-and-whites across the breakroom table.

Garthar's brothers, being earthlings, looked nothing like Garthar. Earl and Percy were balding and a little bit soft in the middle. Garthar glanced at the photos and then continued to stare at the shape under the sheet.

He nodded.

Good cop knew they had nothing. The security camera feeds proved that Garthar had been sitting at the workbench, emoting for the DR45 Unit and waiting for a HIRC.

This was the wildest coincidence in the history of the world, opined good cop aloud, stabbing the air with the business end of a Marlboro Red. He added that he didn't believe in coincidences.

Garthar Admodniak sat there in shock, fear, and confusion. Mostly what he felt, though, was sick. He was suddenly very sweaty and pale. He had to hang on to keep from falling off his chair.

None of this looked good to the Johns Law. It looked suspicious. It looked incriminating.

"Ok," growled good cop, "let's go over this again..."