Free Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) by Shannon Hill

to be very probably white. That emphasis on ‘Paid for by Americans’ is telling. Though,” Jerry continued smoothly between tiny sips of water, “I doubt this was paid for at all. The use of plurals is consistent, but it is a cheap way to imply greater numbers than exist.”
    My hand cramped. I shook it out. Jerry waited patiently for me to work out the kink before I asked, “Would this person be a physical threat?”
    “That I can’t tell you. I am not a psychiatrist. If I were, I might suggest anger management classes.” He smiled, and sagged. “Ah, it does me good to use the old thinking muscles.”
    “In other words,” I said as I reviewed my notes, “look for a redneck with a grudge against Uncle Sam. That doesn’t narrow it down much, Jerry.”
    “A very personal grudge,” Jerry corrected me gently. “All those capital letters in the modern world indicate anger. Emphasis. Passion. This is not someone who has stewed quietly in a back room. He will have spoken of his views, quite likely at some length, and at significant volume.” He waved a thin hand at the paper after he laid it on the tiny table. “The artwork is juvenile, the use of symbols obvious. Cheap fear-mongering. This person is appealing not to our higher intellect but to our hindbrains. Us versus an Other. The enemy as evil, as shown by the swastika. The call to arms, quite literally. Puerile propaganda, but propaganda nonetheless. He does not seek to persuade, but to terrify.”
    I stowed my notepad and pen. “What kind of job?”
    “One that requires mere functional literacy. Do not assume blue collar, however. Low-level white collar is also possible.” His smile faded. “And now, I must ask you to leave. I do not want to be rude, but I am very tired.” His eyes had lost their heat. “Chemotherapy, you know. It does terrible things to the body in the name of preserving it.”
    I hadn’t known. “Is it…”
    “Oh, it is terminal. Life is terminal. But I can expect many good years ahead, once we have routed the tumor in my liver.” He put out a hand to Boris, who for once responded with a polite sniff. “Striking eyes.”
    “Thank you, Jerry. This means a lot to me.”
    Jerry’s smile resurrected itself. “Thank you, Sheriff Eller. You have made me feel useful again, for a while.”
    I drove back to Crazy in a somber mood. Talk about a perspective check. Here I was worrying myself into a tizzy over men, and there was Jerry, all that sick and doing me a favor without a single question of payment.
    There are days I really wonder if anything Aunt Marge taught me stuck at all.

8.
    T here were a couple of pick-ups with logos on the doors at Grenville when I headed out Piedmont the next day. Domestic call first thing in the morning out at Elk Creek Apartments. Like DUIs, they’re a fairly regular feature of cop life in Crazy.
    I could tell which apartment had the dispute by the screaming. Boris lashed his tail eagerly. He loves arresting people. It’s his idea of fun.
    I didn’t have to knock on the door. It was open. Things flew out. Clothes. Shoes. I nearly got clipped by a bedside lamp that shattered on the hood of someone’s car after sailing over the railing and into the parking lot. Boris watched the trajectory with interest.
    I banged on the door jamb. “Sheriff’s department! Hold your fire!”
    The rain of stuff stopped. So did the screaming, after someone got in a nasty, muttered, “You got the cops called on us!”
    I knew that voice. “Eddie Brady, you get your ass out here right now!”
    Eddie slunk out, mean-eyed as only a drunk with a hangover and no booze can be. “You always blame me.”
    I let that one slide. “Miss? You want to come out here, too.”
    The woman came out, meaner-eyed than Eddie, clutching a fluffy too-short robe around her. “He’s throwin’ me out, and I did too pay my share of the rent, not my fault he drunk it!”
    I stood bemused as Boris opened his mouth in disgust at the liquor