Free Harmless by Ernie Lindsey

It was the first time I’d gotten a good look at him
since he arrived.  With the help of numerous spotlights and the alternating
reds and blues of several police cars, I saw jeans, a Giants t-shirt (represent!),
a blue windbreaker, and sneakers.  Signs of a hasty exit, or at least what I
assumed to be a hasty exit, because I’d been under the impression that he and I
had the same taste in clothes and I would never debase myself by wearing white
running shoes with a dark pair of Levi’s.  In all fairness, I’d begged for
immediate help, so I’ll allow room for his haphazard ensemble.  He said, “She’d
been stealing from you?  Is that true or what you think is true?”
    Thomas had a point.  If
perception is nine-tenths of reality, then I’d venture to guess that we don’t
all live inside one unified existence.  Seven billion people on the planet
means seven billion different realities all coexisting under the roof of
Potential Truth.  What I think an apple tastes like may not be the same as what you think an apple tastes like, because flavor is defined by human
perception as an intrinsic quality.
    It’s a little
maddening, isn’t it?  The not knowing.
    If you remove
perception, what does the color red actually look like, what does a
robin actually sound like, what did the women in my life actually smell like? 
    Under the blanket of
perception, Shayna smelled like Parmesan cheese in her later years.  Kerry’s
scent could only be described as an aged Bordeaux.  Complex with a multitude of
exotic aromas.  Not including that holy terror, cherry.
    I said, “Stealing might
be too harsh.  Maybe she was borrowing them.  I can’t think of any reason why,
but whatever it was, she took things out of my house without permission,
when I wasn’t aware of it.  That’s theft, isn’t it?”
    He crossed his arms,
glanced over at the crime scene.  “And why’s this important?”
    “Motive, I guess.”
    “Motive?”
    “I don’t want them to
think I might’ve killed her.  I mean, my things were in her house.”
    “Well, they’re gonna
have some questions if they find it and you don’t exactly have the strongest
alibi.  Watching Russell strike out doesn’t necessarily mean you didn’t have
time to do it.”
    “Russell struck out?  I
knew he’d choke.  What was Walters thinking, putting him in to pinch?  I’ve
been preaching for months that they need to fire that guy.  I’d bet he can’t
manage his own checkbook.” 
    Here you may be
concerned over my failure to stay on task, especially since my beloved Kerry
lay no more than thirty feet away.  I’ll grant you that.  You have to
understand, though, how I feel about the Giants—if my heart pumped to the
rhythm of Kerry’s, that very same heart forced orange and black blood through
my veins.
    “Steve?”
    “What?”
    “Focus.”
    “Right, sorry.  It’s
just—they’re blowing the season with all these stupid mistakes.  Anyway, they
won’t find the stuff because I got everything out.”
    Thomas sprang from the
railing.  (Is “sprang” the right word?  Bounced?  Leapt?  Bounded?  Whatever
the motion, cannonballs don’t move that fast.)  “You what?”
    “I took it.  I got it
out.”
    “You fucked with the
evidence?”
    I’m not sure if it was
out of anger or from the glow of the ambulance lights, but his face had taken
on a red hue.  “I told you, I didn’t want them to think I was a suspect.”
    “I can’t—I don’t—do you
even understand how stupid that was?  Jesus H. Christ.  Are you that much of an
idiot?  You don’t even understand what you’ve done, do you?”
    “I’m not stupid.” 
    We Pendragons test at
some amazing IQ levels.  I’m waiting to hear back from MENSA.  It’s been a
while.  My guess is they’re behind on paperwork.
    “Think for a second. 
Think!”  He slammed the tip of his index finger into the side of his head. 
“You removed evidence , man.  Of course they’re