Free The Boy Detective Fails by Joe Meno

who wrote it?” she asked.
    “Who do you think?” Billy replied.
    “A dentist?”
    “Perhaps,” Billy said. “A very mean dentist.”
    Caroline added: “A very mean dentist who really hates cavities.”

    TWELVE
    The boy detective and the Mumford children are searching for clues beside their front porch. It has just stopped raining and Effie, in her purple and white jacket and her yellow soccer uniform, kneels beside her brother, Gus. Each of them is quiet, looking for some sign, some intimation, each of them caught in a strange world of curious wonderings.
    “Billy?” the girl asks.
    “Yes?”
    “Do you think people are mostly good or mostly evil?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I’d like to know your thoughts on the matter.”
    “I don’t know. I would have to think about it.”
    “I don’t know the answer either,” Effie Mumford says.
    “It is a good question.”
    “Yes, I think so,” the girl says.
    They are both silent for a moment. Gus Mumford nods too, giving it serious thought.
    “Do you think we will find my bunny’s head?” Effie asks.
    “I do. I am quite sure of it.”
    “Why?”
    “The only thing all men have in common with one another is their inherent capacity to make mistakes. We will always fall short. We will always fail at our grand schemes; we can trust that there will always be a clue or a fingerprint or some sign. That is what we must now find. We must think like the criminal here: Surely it was night time when he did his terrible deed.”
    “Yes.”
    “Surely he was in a hurry, nervous that he might be caught.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then surely he must have overlooked something as he made his escape.”
    The boy detective pauses, inspecting a spot of dirt that is crossed with several horizontal marks, a trail of prints running under the porch. Billy follows them on his hands and knees excitedly.
    “What do we have here?” he whispers.
    Gus Mumford hands Billy a note which reads: It looks like a footprint.
    “Have either of you been under the porch recently?”
    The Mumford children shake their heads. Billy, on his hands and knees, crawls beneath the front porch, the Mumford children following.
    “It is the footprint from a large man’s shoe. It’s muddy but it’s clearly a man’s, no? We now know our friend was under here, as I assumed, and that he is a he—yes, he had to hide his actions, so he chose this place. Notice how there’s very little blood about. Only a speck or two there. We should continue our search.”
    “No,” the girl whispers. “I don’t want to look anymore.”
    “But I believe we are getting somewhere. There is more work to be done,” Billy replies.
    Effie Mumford nods, covering her eyes. She has silently begun crying.
    “I know it’s because a lot of people don’t like me. That’s why they did this,” she says.
    “What?”
    Effie Mumford’s eyes are wet with tears.
    “It’s because of how I am in school, but I can’t help it.”
    “I know.”
    “I wish I was better at sports and not smart. I really do.”
    Billy smiles and turns. A large black automobile pulls up in front of the Mumford house. An angry-looking man begins to honk the horn loudly.
    “It’s my coach. I have to go to soccer practice now.”
    “It’s all right. We will continue this later.”
    “OK,” she says, continuing to cry.
    “What’s wrong now?”
    “I wish my coach didn’t hate me so much.”
    “Why do you think he hates you?”
    “I make my team lose all our games.”
    “I see.”
    “He’s very mean. He says very mean things to me.”
    The boy detective and the Mumford children hide under the porch listening to Effie’s coach honking.
    Beep-beep-beep.
    Beep-beep-beep.
    Beep-beep , but the third honk doesn’t come. The fact that the sound is so loud and harsh and the third honk doesn’t come causes a nerve to twitch beneath Billy’s eye. The coach begins again:
    Beep-beep-beep.
    Beep-beep-beep.
    Beep-beep , again missing the third beep. Billy’s