around the room nodded in agreement.
I glared around at them all. "So what you're telling me is, you don't plan to even look for a connection between this shooting and the Hack's murder?"
Chief Walsh shrugged. "Well . . ." he began.
"In that case," I said, "why don't you take your lazy asses out of my house?"
As the chief and his bozos exited my front door, they were assaulted by a horde of reporters and cameramen. We don't get a lot of shootings here in bucolic Saratoga Springs, and I'm something of a local celeb, so the front curb of my house had already become home to three TV minivans. How did they get wind of this so quick? Media people must be descended from buzzards.
I wondered what Walsh would tell them. Probably some fancied up version of "no comment." Several media buzzards saw me watching through the window, and they waved and gestured for me to come outside and talk. But I was beat, so I just closed the shades again.
Meanwhile Dave came back in from outside, where he'd been doing more evidence-hunting on the driveway and sidewalk. Who knows—maybe the shooter left behind a business card by mistake.
"Find anything?" I asked.
He shook his head no. "I'll look again in the morning, but I kind of doubt we'll have much luck. Especially with the media stomping around all over the place."
"But they won't come on the driveway, right? I mean, you put up all that yellow police tape."
"Yeah, but that won't stop them. They'll just see it as an invitation to go under the tape and poke around."
Wonderful. Of course , having done the same thing myself at WTRO, I guess I couldn't complain. "Hey, thanks for trying. I appreciate it."
He checked his watch. "My shift is over now. You want me to stick around for a while? I know you've had a shock."
"No, that's okay," I said, but at the same time Andrea, coming down the stairs, exclaimed, "Yes, that would be great!"
So Dave stuck around for a couple of hours and watched the 11:00 news with us. It was quite a show. I had a starring role.
What had happened was, various buzzards kept ringing my doorbell and getting Derek and Bernie all riled up. Even Dave couldn't scare them off. So eventually, around 10:15, I'd decided to go outside and hold an impromptu news conference.
The first question came from an ins ipid-looking brunette with way too much makeup. "Mr. Burns, who do you think shot at your house? Chief Walsh says it was probably someone's sick idea of a joke."
I stood on the top step of my porch and looked out over the crowd. There were about fifteen buzzards and thirty neighbors. "Folks, " I said, "I have a brief statement to make."
I waited until I was sure all the cameras were focused directly on me. Then I announced, "I am investigating the murder of Jack Tamarack. I have reason to believe that Will Shmuckler was falsely accused. Whoever shot those bullets through my window was trying to stop me from finding the real killer."
This time I got all the dropped jaws I could have asked for. Finally, when their amazement wore off, another overly made up lady buzzard asked me, "So who do you think is the real killer?"
"I don't know yet," I admitted, "but I'll find out." I gave the cameras my fiercest, most macho look. "And let me tell you this: nobody —but nobody —will scare me away. If they want to stop me, they'll have to kill me first."
And they just might do that, I thought, as I watched myself on TV. A chill went up my spine. I grabbed Andrea's hand.
Then Will Shmuckler came on our TV screen. He was standing on the front porch of his house by the Hudson. I was expecting this; Will had called twenty minutes ago to see if I was all right, and to let me know that his own personal set of media buzzards had banged on his front door, told him the who le story, and asked him for comments. "I gave them the works," he told me gleefully. "Best campaign speech I ever made."
Having seen him fumble and bumble his way through the Skidmore event just the other
I glared around at them all. "So what you're telling me is, you don't plan to even look for a connection between this shooting and the Hack's murder?"
Chief Walsh shrugged. "Well . . ." he began.
"In that case," I said, "why don't you take your lazy asses out of my house?"
As the chief and his bozos exited my front door, they were assaulted by a horde of reporters and cameramen. We don't get a lot of shootings here in bucolic Saratoga Springs, and I'm something of a local celeb, so the front curb of my house had already become home to three TV minivans. How did they get wind of this so quick? Media people must be descended from buzzards.
I wondered what Walsh would tell them. Probably some fancied up version of "no comment." Several media buzzards saw me watching through the window, and they waved and gestured for me to come outside and talk. But I was beat, so I just closed the shades again.
Meanwhile Dave came back in from outside, where he'd been doing more evidence-hunting on the driveway and sidewalk. Who knows—maybe the shooter left behind a business card by mistake.
"Find anything?" I asked.
He shook his head no. "I'll look again in the morning, but I kind of doubt we'll have much luck. Especially with the media stomping around all over the place."
"But they won't come on the driveway, right? I mean, you put up all that yellow police tape."
"Yeah, but that won't stop them. They'll just see it as an invitation to go under the tape and poke around."
Wonderful. Of course , having done the same thing myself at WTRO, I guess I couldn't complain. "Hey, thanks for trying. I appreciate it."
He checked his watch. "My shift is over now. You want me to stick around for a while? I know you've had a shock."
"No, that's okay," I said, but at the same time Andrea, coming down the stairs, exclaimed, "Yes, that would be great!"
So Dave stuck around for a couple of hours and watched the 11:00 news with us. It was quite a show. I had a starring role.
What had happened was, various buzzards kept ringing my doorbell and getting Derek and Bernie all riled up. Even Dave couldn't scare them off. So eventually, around 10:15, I'd decided to go outside and hold an impromptu news conference.
The first question came from an ins ipid-looking brunette with way too much makeup. "Mr. Burns, who do you think shot at your house? Chief Walsh says it was probably someone's sick idea of a joke."
I stood on the top step of my porch and looked out over the crowd. There were about fifteen buzzards and thirty neighbors. "Folks, " I said, "I have a brief statement to make."
I waited until I was sure all the cameras were focused directly on me. Then I announced, "I am investigating the murder of Jack Tamarack. I have reason to believe that Will Shmuckler was falsely accused. Whoever shot those bullets through my window was trying to stop me from finding the real killer."
This time I got all the dropped jaws I could have asked for. Finally, when their amazement wore off, another overly made up lady buzzard asked me, "So who do you think is the real killer?"
"I don't know yet," I admitted, "but I'll find out." I gave the cameras my fiercest, most macho look. "And let me tell you this: nobody —but nobody —will scare me away. If they want to stop me, they'll have to kill me first."
And they just might do that, I thought, as I watched myself on TV. A chill went up my spine. I grabbed Andrea's hand.
Then Will Shmuckler came on our TV screen. He was standing on the front porch of his house by the Hudson. I was expecting this; Will had called twenty minutes ago to see if I was all right, and to let me know that his own personal set of media buzzards had banged on his front door, told him the who le story, and asked him for comments. "I gave them the works," he told me gleefully. "Best campaign speech I ever made."
Having seen him fumble and bumble his way through the Skidmore event just the other
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