“LOOK, DETECTIVE, I really don’t know nothin’ about no rifle being stolen from here.”
Helen and I are in Harvey’s Feed and Seed, a small mom-and-pop establishment about a thirty minute drive from Myerton. The clerk is a pimple-faced sixteen- or seventeen-year-old named Clay, if his nametag is to be trusted.
It’s written with a Sharpie, so I’m dubious.
“Take a look again,” Helen says, showing the dull-looking young man a photo of the rifle. “Does this weapon look familiar to you?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says with a crooked smile.
“So it was here?”
“What? Oh, you mean did I see it here? Naw, I told you, I don’t know anything about a stolen rifle.”
“But you just said you saw this weapon!” Helen says loudly. I place my hand on her shoulder—I don’t happen to be wearing my clericals, so the clerk
