II
Moments earlier, on the other side of town, in a similar diner (it does, in fact, belong to the same chain of diners as the one in which Derek’s bloody fork will be thrown shortly) similarly occupied, Henry Herman was sitting on a toilet. Specifically, he was sitting on the toilet in the women’s restroom. Henry always used the women’s restroom at this particular diner, not out of some strange fetished programming, but rather because he felt it was cleaner than the masculine equivalent.So Henry sat, on the toilet, avoiding the return to his booth as best he could. He figured he had about three and a half minutes more before his booth-mates grew too suspicious of his absence. At his booth: Holly (sister), Roland (her husband), and Peter (relationship unknown). Henry despised Roland, largely due to his being in Henry’s class every year of elementary school. Also due to the time in sixth grade when Roland knocked Henry’s fresh-off-the-grill hamburger out if his hand and onto the dirt at Henry’s Backyard Birthday Bash. Mostly due to that time in sixth grade.
When the fork hits Lenny’s chest at the other diner, Henry emerges from the restroom. He walks to his booth, his mind made up: he was leaving.
Hey guys, I’m sorry but I gotta go. Work called. They need me downtown.
You took a phone call while on the shitter? Roland asks.
I never said I had to shit.
Well, you were in there so long. I just assumed.
Thanks, Roland.
You still answered your phone in the bathroom. That’s so gross. Holly frowns, disapprovingly.
Thanks, Holly. Look, I’ve got to go. He tosses a crumpled up ten dollar bill onto the table and walks towards the door.
Don’t forget your sidewalk chalk, Picasso! Roland shouts after him. Henry pretends not to hear and exits the diner. He flips the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and steps out into the rain. A few steps later and he’s fumbling for the keys to his ’96 Honda Civic. A few more steps and he’s at the driver’s side door. He slides the key into the lock and with his knee presses on the door while turning the key and engaging the handle, a ritual necessary to open the antiquated door.
On his way home Henry gets a non-fake business call.
Henry. We need you. 14th and Exeter. Double homicide. Pretty messy.
I’ll be there in five. Henry flips closed his phone, turns the red Civic around and points at the desired intersection.
Four and a half minutes later Henry arrives on the scene. He parks a block away, grabs his pack out of the trunk and heads toward the mass of police officers and medical personnel gathered in the street. His arrival is unnoticed.
Sir. Excuse me, sir. Is detective Lantz here? Henry pulls at the shoulder of a uniformed officer.
Huh? Oh, it’s you. Hey, Lantz, you’re boy’s here. The officer motions at a small group of policemen. Detective Lantz looks back at them.
Hey, Henry, over here.
Henry walks over to the curb where the officers are standing and sets his pack down. The policemen return to their duties, oblivious to Henry’s presence. He opens his pack and extracts the necessary equipment for the task at hand.
What do you think, cyan or cerulean for the pants? he says out loud to no one. He decides to go with the cyan and takes the corresponding stick of chalk out of the large box of multi-colored chalks.
Yes, cyan was the right choice, he says when he finishes tracing around the victim’s tee shirt. Now, is this blood maroon or wine? Or perhaps a combination? When he’s done, Detective Lantz ambles over to check his work.
Christ, Henry, we just need an outline, not a fucking mural.
Yes, sir, but I thought mustard was a good match for victim number two’s shirt.
Keep that shit in art school, son.
Yes, sir.
Alright, then. Thanks for coming out.
Henry replaces his things in his pack and walks back to the Civic.
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