spoke. “Y’all pick a day and we’ll play, I promise!”
They all shouted their protests behind him, but he was already to the door. He looked into the lobby. There were several loitering patrons, and one tiny old man arguing with the girl in the ticket booth, but no cops. Michael made for the open double doors that led to the street.
His sneakers hit the sidewalk and his heart fluttered with adrenaline.
“Hey, you!”
Michael turned around. A clone of the coffee-carrying cop leaned against their squad car.
“You a cast member?” he gestured to the scythe in Michael’s hand.
Michael nodded, and tried to look innocent.
“Have you talked to the detective yet?”
“Oh,” Michael said, adjusting the wide strap of his bag. “No.”
“Where are you running off to then?”
“I have an overdue paper. I was going to run home and get it turned in—my professor said it was my last chance.” Michael knew his cheeks were turning crimson.
The officer smirked at Michael and sipped his coffee. He lifted his handheld radio to his lips and pressed a button. “Mitchell,” he said, “Tell the Detective we’ve got at least one more.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Michael,” he stuttered, “Michael Wallace.”
“The reaper kid, Michael Wallace,” he said into the radio.
“I thought you were in a hurry, kid,” he gestured back inside. “Go!”
“Oh,” Michael mumbled. “Thank you.”
Michael took the steps two at a time. The coffee cop passed him on the way out.
Well, I tried .
Michael stopped on his way to the prop room to deposit his bag and scythe just inside the auditorium, where no one would notice them. He’d just grab them easily on the way out. Fewer questions that way.
“There you are. Where’d you go?” Randy had spotted him.
“I—I was—”
“C’mon,” Randy said, leading the way to the prop room, “You have to see this cop. He looks just like Columbo.”
Randy opened the door and Michael walked in, already trembling with nerves. The police were standing in a corner near the door. There were two uniformed officers and one plainclothes detective. They were already wearing their coats. One of the beat cops was tall and very young. The other was shorter, with a tired-looking face and darker hair and eyes.
“Hey,” Randy said, nudging Michael with his elbow. “See what I mean?”
If Michael hadn’t been frantically remembering what he had decided to say, he would have agreed. The detective sat at the dingy metal craft table, a coffee sitting next to a tall notepad. He had dark hair and narrow, light brown eyes. He wore a long beige coat and scuffed-up leather shoes. One of the candleholders sat in the chair opposite him, answering questions. He picked up his pen and jotted something down. His thick eyebrows were drawn into a suspicious scowl.
“Oh, and I talked to the guys,” Randy said quickly, as the tired-looking cop made his way toward them. “We’ll be at your place the day after tomorrow.”
“Randy, I—”
“You said pick a date,” he brushed Michael off and waved happily to the cop.
“I’m Officer Mitchell,” he said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” Randy said. “Shoot.”
The man smirked but pressed on. “Are you both part of the show?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Randy said.
“Were you here on Wednesday night?” he asked Randy.
“Yes,” Randy said, “We both were. We were here for the opening night party, too.”
“What time would you say you left?” asked Officer Mitchell.
Randy glanced at Michael. They hadn’t really been watching the clock. “I don’t know…what do you think, Michael? Around…” He looked toward the ceiling, apparently doing the math.
Michael noticed that the Columbo cop was eyeing him.
“It was two,” Michael said, louder than he had intended to.
Officer Mitchell opened his mouth to ask another question, but
They all shouted their protests behind him, but he was already to the door. He looked into the lobby. There were several loitering patrons, and one tiny old man arguing with the girl in the ticket booth, but no cops. Michael made for the open double doors that led to the street.
His sneakers hit the sidewalk and his heart fluttered with adrenaline.
“Hey, you!”
Michael turned around. A clone of the coffee-carrying cop leaned against their squad car.
“You a cast member?” he gestured to the scythe in Michael’s hand.
Michael nodded, and tried to look innocent.
“Have you talked to the detective yet?”
“Oh,” Michael said, adjusting the wide strap of his bag. “No.”
“Where are you running off to then?”
“I have an overdue paper. I was going to run home and get it turned in—my professor said it was my last chance.” Michael knew his cheeks were turning crimson.
The officer smirked at Michael and sipped his coffee. He lifted his handheld radio to his lips and pressed a button. “Mitchell,” he said, “Tell the Detective we’ve got at least one more.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Michael,” he stuttered, “Michael Wallace.”
“The reaper kid, Michael Wallace,” he said into the radio.
“I thought you were in a hurry, kid,” he gestured back inside. “Go!”
“Oh,” Michael mumbled. “Thank you.”
Michael took the steps two at a time. The coffee cop passed him on the way out.
Well, I tried .
Michael stopped on his way to the prop room to deposit his bag and scythe just inside the auditorium, where no one would notice them. He’d just grab them easily on the way out. Fewer questions that way.
“There you are. Where’d you go?” Randy had spotted him.
“I—I was—”
“C’mon,” Randy said, leading the way to the prop room, “You have to see this cop. He looks just like Columbo.”
Randy opened the door and Michael walked in, already trembling with nerves. The police were standing in a corner near the door. There were two uniformed officers and one plainclothes detective. They were already wearing their coats. One of the beat cops was tall and very young. The other was shorter, with a tired-looking face and darker hair and eyes.
“Hey,” Randy said, nudging Michael with his elbow. “See what I mean?”
If Michael hadn’t been frantically remembering what he had decided to say, he would have agreed. The detective sat at the dingy metal craft table, a coffee sitting next to a tall notepad. He had dark hair and narrow, light brown eyes. He wore a long beige coat and scuffed-up leather shoes. One of the candleholders sat in the chair opposite him, answering questions. He picked up his pen and jotted something down. His thick eyebrows were drawn into a suspicious scowl.
“Oh, and I talked to the guys,” Randy said quickly, as the tired-looking cop made his way toward them. “We’ll be at your place the day after tomorrow.”
“Randy, I—”
“You said pick a date,” he brushed Michael off and waved happily to the cop.
“I’m Officer Mitchell,” he said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” Randy said. “Shoot.”
The man smirked but pressed on. “Are you both part of the show?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Randy said.
“Were you here on Wednesday night?” he asked Randy.
“Yes,” Randy said, “We both were. We were here for the opening night party, too.”
“What time would you say you left?” asked Officer Mitchell.
Randy glanced at Michael. They hadn’t really been watching the clock. “I don’t know…what do you think, Michael? Around…” He looked toward the ceiling, apparently doing the math.
Michael noticed that the Columbo cop was eyeing him.
“It was two,” Michael said, louder than he had intended to.
Officer Mitchell opened his mouth to ask another question, but
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