and held it up. A small key.
“Bag it,” Jack told him.
“He doesn’t appear to be beaten up like the other victims,” Chapa stated. “The other three floaters had facial lacerations, indications they’d been worked over.”
“No comment.”
“And the others were men with money who turned up wearing polo shirts with country club emblems, and Italian leather shoes. This guy shopped at thrift stores.”
“Still another reason why there may not be a connection. How many ways do I have to say, ‘no comment’? Officer Gordon, now, please.”
“Look, Lieutenant Daniels, I really am trying to help. Don’t you want to know what Preston and I discussed? It could be relevant to the investigation.”
“Officer Gordon will take your statement, possibly sometime within the next few days.”
This time Gordon managed to get Chapa several steps away before the reporter slipped his grasp and came storming back
“Why was he floating? Lungs full of air because something was caught in his throat?”
Now Herb got so close his nose almost touched Chapa’s.
“And how exactly do you know that?”
“I saw something fly out of his mouth, watched the Lieutenant pick it up. Could be a pog.”
“A what?”
“Let me see it, and I’ll tell you.”
Jack thought it over, couldn’t see the harm, and pulled the bag out of her pocket. Chapa held it by the edge, bringing it close.
“Well, is it a,” Herb hesitated, “
pog
?”
Chapa looked up at the four of them and shook his head.
“It’s not a pog.” He smiled smugly. “It’s a slammer, a member of the pog family.”
Jack looked down at the small round piece of metal, then back at Chapa with a gaze that was equal parts awe, bemusement, and pity.
“That’s it,” Jack’s voice was calm and steady. “Officer Gordon, get him out of here and keep him away from normal people until we take his statement, sometime around Labor Day.”
“Pogs were made of cardboard, this one’s metal, and heavier, that’s what makes it a slammer,” Chapa was talking fast, trying to get the words out before Gordon could grab his shoulders again and drag him away.
Jack snatched the bag back, returned it to her pocket. “Your turn. What, exactly, is a pog?”
Chapa folded his arms across his chest and looked like he was getting ready to hold court.
“They originally came from fruit juice in Hawaii. The treated cardboard milk cap beneath the screw-on bottle top of passion fruit-orange-guava juice. They had different designs, kids began to collect them and trade them by playing a game. You’d pile up a stack of your opponent’s pogs face down, then hit them with a heavier piece called a slammer. The ones that turned face up you got to keep.”
Herb grunted. “Never heard of it.”
“Really big, back in the early 90s. Companies made millions of them. They were a fad for a while, some of the rarer ones sold for big bucks, like baseball cards. The one that popped out of Preston features a Bob Kane drawing. Classic Batman, before they turned his cowl from blue to black.”
“And you know this because…?”
“I’m a reporter,” Chapa said through a smirk. “That means I’m as close to being omniscient as any human being can possibly get.”
“If you’re omnipotent you know that if you print any sort of speculation before we release an official statement I’ll come down on you so hard your ears will bleed.”
Chapa smiled. “You can’t repress the truth, Lieutenant. The people have a right to know.”
“They also have a right to be safe from murderers, which are a lot harder to catch if crime scene information leaks out. Now go take his statement, Gordon, and if he gets away from you again you’re going to wish you didn’t come to work today and instead stayed home and licked all the hair off of a monkey.”
Chapa laughed, then said, “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, Lieutenant,” forcing Jack to suppress a smile of her own.
Gordon nodded,
“Bag it,” Jack told him.
“He doesn’t appear to be beaten up like the other victims,” Chapa stated. “The other three floaters had facial lacerations, indications they’d been worked over.”
“No comment.”
“And the others were men with money who turned up wearing polo shirts with country club emblems, and Italian leather shoes. This guy shopped at thrift stores.”
“Still another reason why there may not be a connection. How many ways do I have to say, ‘no comment’? Officer Gordon, now, please.”
“Look, Lieutenant Daniels, I really am trying to help. Don’t you want to know what Preston and I discussed? It could be relevant to the investigation.”
“Officer Gordon will take your statement, possibly sometime within the next few days.”
This time Gordon managed to get Chapa several steps away before the reporter slipped his grasp and came storming back
“Why was he floating? Lungs full of air because something was caught in his throat?”
Now Herb got so close his nose almost touched Chapa’s.
“And how exactly do you know that?”
“I saw something fly out of his mouth, watched the Lieutenant pick it up. Could be a pog.”
“A what?”
“Let me see it, and I’ll tell you.”
Jack thought it over, couldn’t see the harm, and pulled the bag out of her pocket. Chapa held it by the edge, bringing it close.
“Well, is it a,” Herb hesitated, “
pog
?”
Chapa looked up at the four of them and shook his head.
“It’s not a pog.” He smiled smugly. “It’s a slammer, a member of the pog family.”
Jack looked down at the small round piece of metal, then back at Chapa with a gaze that was equal parts awe, bemusement, and pity.
“That’s it,” Jack’s voice was calm and steady. “Officer Gordon, get him out of here and keep him away from normal people until we take his statement, sometime around Labor Day.”
“Pogs were made of cardboard, this one’s metal, and heavier, that’s what makes it a slammer,” Chapa was talking fast, trying to get the words out before Gordon could grab his shoulders again and drag him away.
Jack snatched the bag back, returned it to her pocket. “Your turn. What, exactly, is a pog?”
Chapa folded his arms across his chest and looked like he was getting ready to hold court.
“They originally came from fruit juice in Hawaii. The treated cardboard milk cap beneath the screw-on bottle top of passion fruit-orange-guava juice. They had different designs, kids began to collect them and trade them by playing a game. You’d pile up a stack of your opponent’s pogs face down, then hit them with a heavier piece called a slammer. The ones that turned face up you got to keep.”
Herb grunted. “Never heard of it.”
“Really big, back in the early 90s. Companies made millions of them. They were a fad for a while, some of the rarer ones sold for big bucks, like baseball cards. The one that popped out of Preston features a Bob Kane drawing. Classic Batman, before they turned his cowl from blue to black.”
“And you know this because…?”
“I’m a reporter,” Chapa said through a smirk. “That means I’m as close to being omniscient as any human being can possibly get.”
“If you’re omnipotent you know that if you print any sort of speculation before we release an official statement I’ll come down on you so hard your ears will bleed.”
Chapa smiled. “You can’t repress the truth, Lieutenant. The people have a right to know.”
“They also have a right to be safe from murderers, which are a lot harder to catch if crime scene information leaks out. Now go take his statement, Gordon, and if he gets away from you again you’re going to wish you didn’t come to work today and instead stayed home and licked all the hair off of a monkey.”
Chapa laughed, then said, “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, Lieutenant,” forcing Jack to suppress a smile of her own.
Gordon nodded,
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