A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi Page A

the night in jail. My prints on the weapon could get me convicted of murder. I didn’t think it would come to that, but it was possible.
    I had to bite the bullet though. Finding that boy’s killer was too important to me.
    I parked in front of the office beside the dust-covered Plymouth and turned off the ignition. The office windows were still lit from within. The neon vacancy sign buzzed and flickered, then seemed to synchronize with the ticking of my engine as it cooled. Looking to my right, I noticed the other vehicle parked in front of number 2. That room’s lights were still off, and I could see number 12’s door hanging ajar, the way it had been left in my sudden departure.
    Eager to get this over with, I got out of the car and swung the door shut. Broken glass fragments rattled around inside. The office door, like the rest of the place, was covered with old peeling paint, and a dingy blind was closed in the window. It had a “Manager” sign at eye level and a doorbell to the left, identified as the night bell and feebly illuminated under a layer of grime. I pressed it and heard a strident buzzing inside, followed by the faint sounds of someone grunting and moaning as if he’d been injured.
    The door wasn’t locked when I tried it, swinging open slowly on squeaky hinges. Stepping inside the well-lit office, I noticed a blank-screened TV in the upper right corner and a counter running across the room in front of me. The sounds of muffled struggle turned more frantic, coming from the floor behind the front desk.
    He was tied up down there, hands and feet, squirming in the tight space behind the counter. Eyes bugged out in fear. His mouth was duct-taped and his breath came out in a rapid, shallow whistle.
    An open door on my right said “Private.” Beyond that, a dark alcove that I went through to get to the area behind the front desk. A short corridor on the right presumably led to the proprietor’s living quarters.
    Someone had done a thorough job incapacitating him. His legs were bound together at the knees and his feet were crossed one over the other and secured, preventing him from getting up to a standing position. The man’s throat was working, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he struggled to get enough air around the duct tape. I ripped it off in one quick motion. He gasped several times, filling his lungs. There was a small patch of blood on the back of his head, a shiny, dark red spot congealing in his thick hair. Sweat beaded his face, which was as red as a bad sunburn. It was obvious he’d been getting pretty worked up over his predicament.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œWho are you?” he asked, still breathing hard.
    â€œMy name’s Tim Ryder,” I answered, undoing his hands from behind his back.
    â€œThat guy isn’t still around, is he?”
    â€œYou mean the one who did this to you?”
    â€œâ€™Course. Who else would I be talking about?”
    â€œWhat did he look like?”
    I got the last of the tape off, and he rubbed his hands together, getting the circulation back.
    â€œTall, maybe six foot. Leather jacket and jeans. Red hair. White dude,” he added, reaching for a pair of scissors under the counter. Next to them, a roll of duct tape with its ripped end hanging off. The manager was lucky it had been there, I thought. Those scissors could have been buried in his neck right now instead.
    â€œWhy? You know him?” the man asked, cutting the tape from his knees and feet.
    â€œNot really,” I answered.
    A nervous look. “Not really? What does that mean?”
    â€œRelax. He’s no friend of mine.”
    â€œSo who is he, then?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said, helping him up. “I’ll tell you what I know after we call the police.”
    â€œYou don’t look so good yourself,” he said, eyeing the bruise on the side of my face.
    I brought my hand up to it and