Neither Ben or I had gotten a close enough look at the person, me cause I was rushing, and Ben cause he was knocked out.
Ben got out his cards and was pondering them as I proposed something.
“Honey, I think we need help.” “What do you mean,” he said.
“I said, I’m starting to get scared, yesterday with the fish and then last night, this is starting to get out of hand.” I let that sink in a bit.
“I think we need to call Officer Krumpke, I mean Nunez.” I said slowly. The thing with my husband is that he is sometimes to proud to ask for help. But I was done, DONE, with trying to figure this thing out and was starting both get simultaneously scared and pissed that the mystery surrounding Drew’s death and our bumbled “investigation” was starting to threaten my family. Sneaking around following people is one thing, but having dead fishes and a knocked around husband was quite another.
“What w ill we tell him?” Ben asked hesitantly.
“We tell him everything, we get him to agree not to jump to conclusions, maybe we can even get him to agree to meet us on his time off, keep it casual and just simply ask for his advice. Whoever killed Drew thinks we know too, or we wouldn’t have been ‘sent’ that message with the fishes. Ben, I’m scared, we need to do this . ” That was the best argument I could put forth and I hoped it work. The truth was, I wanted out, I wanted to stop what we were doing and have someone else take care of it. I wanted my simple little life back, dance lessons, what to make for dinner, no DUI’s or breaking and entering, no sneaking around and trying to “find out” who did what. I was done.
“I’ll think about it” was the answer I got. And I did a little dance inside my head cause I knew what that meant. It meant a ‘yes, okay.’ I just needed to buy my time til my husband declared that we should go ahead and do it. AND that he would then take credit for having the idea, which was fine by me, as long as it got done.
Turns out Ben both must have been feeling better and did something on it because he had called him and arranged to meet Mr . Nunez at our local pool hall, Crossroads at 8:15 that evening. He even gave me marching orders:
“L et me do most of the talking, you tend to run out at the mouth sometimes, okay” and I bit my lip slightly in both annoyance and amusement. It was a good thing Ben couldn’t see inside my head cause wow, would he see me running my mouth. I thought I kept my “public” self rather well under control. I guess not. Oh well, I thought, pooey on you.
“Officer Nunez, thank you for agreeing to meet us ,” Ben said rather formerly upon seeing him. After we all settled down at one of the back tables and Ben and the officer had gotten drinks (water and lemon for me thank you very much), and the formalities were out of the way, Ben settled in to start our story of woe.
Luckily, the bar wasn’t that busy, the owner had cancelled the Wednesday night karaoke and there was no pool league, only on Tuesday’s and Thursdays. The tin-walled sports bar was even bare of sports fans being that it was between seasons for football and baseball had just ended, with my Yankees again taking their rightful place at the top.
“Yesterday I was attacked and yesterday someone left 12 dead fish in our mailbox, we think both are connected to the murder of Drew ,” Ben said dramatically. Well that was designed to get Officer Nunez’s attention and it certainly did.
“What do you mean, you think it is related to Drew’s murder?” the Officer asked. You could tell he wanted to write things down cause he kept fidgeting but we had told him it was important to us that this stay off the official radar for a couple of reasons. One of which was Ben’s distrust of anyone in uniform.
“Neither one of us believe the official line that Jesse killed his dad, he just didn’t, one, for all their differences, his dad was all he had, and two he’s just too
Ben got out his cards and was pondering them as I proposed something.
“Honey, I think we need help.” “What do you mean,” he said.
“I said, I’m starting to get scared, yesterday with the fish and then last night, this is starting to get out of hand.” I let that sink in a bit.
“I think we need to call Officer Krumpke, I mean Nunez.” I said slowly. The thing with my husband is that he is sometimes to proud to ask for help. But I was done, DONE, with trying to figure this thing out and was starting both get simultaneously scared and pissed that the mystery surrounding Drew’s death and our bumbled “investigation” was starting to threaten my family. Sneaking around following people is one thing, but having dead fishes and a knocked around husband was quite another.
“What w ill we tell him?” Ben asked hesitantly.
“We tell him everything, we get him to agree not to jump to conclusions, maybe we can even get him to agree to meet us on his time off, keep it casual and just simply ask for his advice. Whoever killed Drew thinks we know too, or we wouldn’t have been ‘sent’ that message with the fishes. Ben, I’m scared, we need to do this . ” That was the best argument I could put forth and I hoped it work. The truth was, I wanted out, I wanted to stop what we were doing and have someone else take care of it. I wanted my simple little life back, dance lessons, what to make for dinner, no DUI’s or breaking and entering, no sneaking around and trying to “find out” who did what. I was done.
“I’ll think about it” was the answer I got. And I did a little dance inside my head cause I knew what that meant. It meant a ‘yes, okay.’ I just needed to buy my time til my husband declared that we should go ahead and do it. AND that he would then take credit for having the idea, which was fine by me, as long as it got done.
Turns out Ben both must have been feeling better and did something on it because he had called him and arranged to meet Mr . Nunez at our local pool hall, Crossroads at 8:15 that evening. He even gave me marching orders:
“L et me do most of the talking, you tend to run out at the mouth sometimes, okay” and I bit my lip slightly in both annoyance and amusement. It was a good thing Ben couldn’t see inside my head cause wow, would he see me running my mouth. I thought I kept my “public” self rather well under control. I guess not. Oh well, I thought, pooey on you.
“Officer Nunez, thank you for agreeing to meet us ,” Ben said rather formerly upon seeing him. After we all settled down at one of the back tables and Ben and the officer had gotten drinks (water and lemon for me thank you very much), and the formalities were out of the way, Ben settled in to start our story of woe.
Luckily, the bar wasn’t that busy, the owner had cancelled the Wednesday night karaoke and there was no pool league, only on Tuesday’s and Thursdays. The tin-walled sports bar was even bare of sports fans being that it was between seasons for football and baseball had just ended, with my Yankees again taking their rightful place at the top.
“Yesterday I was attacked and yesterday someone left 12 dead fish in our mailbox, we think both are connected to the murder of Drew ,” Ben said dramatically. Well that was designed to get Officer Nunez’s attention and it certainly did.
“What do you mean, you think it is related to Drew’s murder?” the Officer asked. You could tell he wanted to write things down cause he kept fidgeting but we had told him it was important to us that this stay off the official radar for a couple of reasons. One of which was Ben’s distrust of anyone in uniform.
“Neither one of us believe the official line that Jesse killed his dad, he just didn’t, one, for all their differences, his dad was all he had, and two he’s just too
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