Bad People by Evan Cobb, Michael Canfield

the murder, and then for months nothing. Why now?
    They didn’t come to him, they had called and asked him to come in to see them when he could. That meant something didn’t it? A few follow-up questions was all.
    He’d done something he regretted, but that something was not him. It took more than a single bad choice to make or unmake a person.
    Barry had no reason to believe the police linked him in any way to Robb’s murder. Any worry that they had was foolish paranoia.
    On his drive over to the precinct, Barry tried Connie on her cell again, but she still didn’t pick up. She’d been like that with him a lot recently, or was that thought paranoia too?
    He didn’t mention this new police interview in any of his messages to Connie, because he thought talking about it would sound too serious over voicemail. He preferred to slip the topic in with some subtlety once he and Connie connected again.
    Barry entered the precinct. It must have been a shift-change or something. A sea of blue uniforms streamed out the revolving door. He tried to part them and get in.
    He felt dirty looks. One jowly, mustachioed cop in particular glared at him, offended by the presence of the civilian—this non-cop.
    After he made his way past that, Barry asked at the high counter for Detectives Brussels and Starvold. The officer at the counter jerked his thumb and Barry turned in the direction he guessed was the one indicated by this gesture
    “Hold it!” shouted the cop. “Name.”
    Barry told him, and the cop looked him up in the computer, then typed something. After a few moments a label printer spit out a sticker with a bar code and Barry’s name on it (in that order). The cop handed it to him. “Wear that,” he said, and told Barry a floor and a room number. The room number was also on the sticker, as well as the name “Starvold” in smaller print.
    Barry took the slow khaki-colored elevator up, found the room, and recognized one of the detectives on Robb’s murder sitting at one of the desks. The older one, Barry guessed it was Brussels, but he really didn’t remember which one was which. Realizing that, and that he really was indifferent to what the police were doing, made him smile inside for the first time in weeks.
    He put his hand straight out for the cop and announced his presence. “Detective,” he said.
    “Barry!” said the cop, “thanks for coming in. Let me get a pad and pen.” He found them and stood up. He started away and motioned with the yellow pad for Barry to follow. “Thisward ho,” he said. Barry spotted the other cop—the partner—coming the other way with a Styrofoam coffee. His face was expressionless. He was clearly heading to meet them. Barry felt betrayed by the young detective’s smile now, and his casual manner of greeting, because, clearly, it had all been rehearsed. One at the desk, one stalking the hallway. Two men, one ambition, to catch him unawares. Unfair, like jackals. Were they men? Do men lay in ambush like that for other men?
    No.
    They all sat down in a room, like the little rooms on The Closer or one of those Law & Order shows. Starvold motioned Barry to a chair at the table and took a chair himself on the opposite side. Brussels sat at the far end, like the head of the family. Starvold dropped his yellow pad on the table and tapped his pencil up and down, bouncing the eraser.
    “Know your folks were bookies?”
    “Without further ado…” said Brussels.
    “I don’t know why you say that,” Barry responded.
    “They took bets: sports bets, numbers, and the like. Back in the day. Out of the family gas station. You remember Mid-Town Mini-Stop on MLK?”
    “Of course. My parents’ store.”
    “Before they sold to the Koreans. Then the Koreans sold to the Hindus. Did you know they took bets there?”
    “If you say so.”
    “That’s an interesting response,” said Starvold.
    “I don’t wish to discuss my parents with you.”
    “And why should he?” said