The Guilty Witness

“Before we get started, I want to say that wasn’t a crack pipe in my suitcase.”

This was not a good way to start an interview, especially with a detective, I thought as I casually eavesdropped on the men. I peeked around the corner and then returned to my position, busily typing away at pointless notes, listening all the while.

A good natured detective sat next to the man. He held his thumb on the record button of a slender, silver device while the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. He had yet to ask any questions and already the information was pouring forth, and like a tipped over bottle of malt liquor, it stunk.

“Ok,” the detective agreed. “We are in agreement that the pipe found in the suitcase was not used for smoking crack. Can you explain what it was used for?”

They reached a consensus so quickly, I marveled. It is easier to swim with the flow of the stream rather than to resist it.  There is a Buddhist quote in there somewhere.  I made a search of the internet of swimming upstream and found reference to a crappy Australian movie.

“Weed,” the man said with a nervous laugh. “I smoke weed.”

Oh great, that’s much better than crack. I rolled my eyes and continued my search.

Found a better quote, “Three things cannot be hidden long: the sun, the moon and the truth.”

“I see, you smoke a little reefer,” the detective said with a nod.

The tugging at the corner of the detective’s mouth gave way to a smile. He had nice clean teeth, all accounted for in a straight line of healthy white.  He was really jiving now, pulling out his street lingo for drugs.

Suddenly, the man received a message on his phone. He got up and announced, “I’ve got to smoke a cigarette.  I’ll be right back.”

He went across the street, forgetful or unaware of the window through which the detective was able to watch him walk up to a car and make mysterious transaction and return without once lighting a cigarette.

Namaste, little brother, the truth will almost certainly not set you free and it will all be known soon enough.

 

 

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Bugs and drugs

“What in the heck is bug gear? “ a young woman spouted off after she slammed the phone down into its cradle.

The woman was rather sick of hearing about infestations.  It seemed that roaches, bed bugs, and mice were taking over the city, starting with the poorest and most vulnerable households.  Where ever there was a hole or a crack, the pests crept inside and kept coming.

Regardless of the attempts to trap and spray, the pests were there to stay, like it or not.

Another woman in a connected cubicle heard her co-worker’s frustration through the thin, partial wall.  She flatly replied, “Sounds like fun over there.”

“Apparently, this house has a roach infestation.  The nurse wouldn’t tell me what else is going on because she didn’t want to speculate, except that it’s safe enough and I should wear my bug gear,” the first woman explained.

“Is that it?” the second woman questioned, and rolled her chair closer to her co-worker with raised eyebrows and a grin.

“Oh, and that she thinks it’s a drug house for the neighborhood dealers who may or may not be the client’s grandkids,” the first woman responded.

The woman’s co-worker laughed.  Before rolling back into her cube, she said with a sense of finality, “Bugs, drugs, and you can bring the hugs.”

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