Free Rust On the Razor by Mark Richard Zubro

reason to kill him. I barely knew him. I’ve been at the hospital all night. It would help me if you didn’t address me as ‘faggot.’”
    â€œI don’t give a shit what would help you. The sheriff was my coach in high school and my friend. He helped me get this job. He’s dead and I’ll call you anything I want. Just answer my questions.”
    â€œAm I a suspect?”
    â€œDon’t start that lawyer shit with me. Just talk. I want everything you did last night in order.” He held his hand poised with pen over pad.
    So I told him. Just to be nasty, I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to snatch glimpses of his polyester-covered
crotch. This is a great way to make a straight man feel uncomfortable. Once he caught my glance and quickly looked away.
    By the time we were finished, I’d sweated through the back of my shirt and the seat of my pants. The window on my side faced the east and the sun shone in on me. The open window let in what little breeze there was.
    Harvey flipped his notebook shut. “Stay there,” he growled. He got out and walked directly to the coroner.
    During the interrogation someone had been taking crime-scene photos and another person dusted for fingerprints.
    I gazed at the assembled mass of gawkers. More vehicles had arrived, including an ambulance and one more cop car. Twenty-five feet away a crowd of thirty or forty people stood behind yellow crime-scene tape. As each new spectator arrived, the car where the body still sat in the heat was pointed out and then fingers would swing in my direction.
    I saw Clara Thorton in earnest conversation with Wainwright Richardson.
    Minutes later I spotted Scott trying to enter through the police cordon, but Cody stopped him. No one seemed to be noticing me, so I got out of the car. I strolled over to Scott.
    â€œNews on your dad?” I asked.
    â€œI was just upstairs. Nothing. You look miserable.”
    â€œI’ve been sweating in that damn car.”
    Several officers noticed us and pointed. Cody, Harvey, Clara, and Wainwright moved toward us. The crowd behind the police cordon surged in our direction. I saw teenagers and little kids on bikes, older women in sun hats, young men and women in jeans, and elderly couples in khakis. I guess there isn’t an approved gawker-at-tragedy uniform.

    I observed the approaching mass of officialdom. “It’s the cavalry,” I said, “and I don’t think they’re riding to the rescue.”
    Over their shoulders I could see Sheriff Woodall’s body being placed in a body bag and into an ambulance.
    â€œWhat’s happened so far?” Scott asked.
    â€œI was questioned. They should be done. I never got your stuff from the house.”
    â€œNo big deal.”
    When the group of officials arrived, Richardson said, “Mr. Mason, we’ll want you to come down to the police station to sign a statement. We also will have a few more questions.”
    This had gone on just about long enough. I said, “I’ll want a lawyer present, and I’ll need to make some calls.”
    The three others looked at Richardson. He gripped his chin in his hand, nodded slowly, and said, “We’ll decide that when we get to the station.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that and began a protest. So did Scott, but two cops positioned themselves on either side of me. They didn’t cuff me, but I wasn’t free to leave, either.
    â€œI’ll get you out,” Scott called to me.
    â€œCall Todd Bristol,” I shouted back. Todd was our lawyer in Chicago. I was beginning to dislike this big-time.
    I was placed in the backseat of Cody’s police car. He did not turn on the air-conditioning, but the rush of the wind through the open windows as the car moved gave some relief.
    I said, “So, Cody, how ’bout them Braves?”
    â€œShut up, asshole.”
    Tension-relieving chatter was not Cody’s long