1 PLACES, EVERYONE A short story from Linwood Barclay… Herman was thinking he’d hit the jackpot. Sexually speaking, that is. In the picture the girl had posted of herself online she looked pretty hot. Twenty-one, blonde, blue eyes, didn’t look like she weighed three hundred pounds or anything. Not stick thin like a supermodel, but that was okay with him because he thought those chicks looked totally bony. Herman was okay with a girl who had a little meat on her. A girl like that, if they hit it off, started going out, she’d be fine going to the kinds of places he liked eat, where they served ribs, chicken wings, pizza where they hid extra cheese in the crusts. They wouldn’t have to go to a place where they had a hundred different kinds of salad. Herman wanted a girl who did not know the meaning of the word “arugula.” Not that this potential girlfriend’s dietary choices were topmost in Herman’s mind at this moment. Driving down the highway toward their first meeting, thinking about the things she’d chatted to him, he could just about have steered with no hands. Herman knew the girl’s online photo might not be one hundred per cent accurate. God knows, the picture he’d posted of himself was not, strictly speaking, a perfect likeness. First of all, it was from eighteen years ago, when he himself was twenty-one, and he hadn’t done anything to dispel the illusion that he looked any differently today at the age of thirty-nine. In fact, he’d told her he was thirty-five, and that his profile picture was from when he was twenty-four. He figured he could be forgiven for using an eleven-year-old pic, but eighteen was pushing it. The thing was, he didn’t think he looked all that bad now. A face shot taken today, he conceded, would be somewhat more pie-shaped. He could stand to lose some weight, but he’d definitely lost some hair in those eighteen years. His mother, bless her, referred to him – with affection, she always said – as “pear” shaped. What he did offer, he reasoned, was serious bucks. Plenty of chicks were willing to overlook a few physical drawbacks for a guy who had a healthy cash flow. His job at the bank as an assistant branch manager paid respectably, but it was the three million his father’d left him that really took the pressure off. He tried not to be too flashy, other than maybe the Infiniti he drove, and the waterfront condo. Okay, and the Rolex. The leather, Italian shoes were a bit over the top. Fine, he thought. So maybe he’d flashed it around some. You worked with what you had. Herman liked this girl’s name: Janey. “Jane” would have sounded kind of schoolmarmish. Oldfashioned. But by adding that little twist at the end, it made her sound sexy. Made her sound fun. A librarian would go by Jane, but not Janey. He wished he had a sexier name than Herman. Talk about old-fashioned, and kind of nerdy, too, when you thought about it. There was Herman Melville, who wrote that boring fish book no one had actually read. Herman Munster, a Frankenstein-like character in a sixties sitcom. Herman’s Hermits, who were kind of cool, if anyone actually remembered them. They were even before Herman’s time. For Janey, they were prehistoric. But what had she typed only last night? She wrote: I THINK HERMAN IS A CUTE NAME. He’d liked that. Found each other through Facebook. She was some friend of a friend of a friend, asked him out of the blue to be hers, and he figured, why not? One night they got chatting. At first, they talked about surface stuff. Movies, mostly, like that new one with all the Marvel superheroes. But what surprised Herman was that Janey, even though she was a lot younger than him, liked a lot of the movies he loved when he was a teenager. Clearly, she was really into
2 film, checked out the older stuff. He liked that, too. What he liked most all was when they got to the dirty talk. It didn’t happen immediately. The third night, Janey typed: SURE DO GET LONELY SOMETIMES. If ever there was an opening, this would seem to be it. Herman wrote: DONT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND? Janey: NOT AT THE MOMENT. I MISS … CERTAIN THINGS. Herman: WHAT KIND OF THINGS? Janey: YOU KNOW. Herman: MAYBE IF YOU TOLD ME I COULD HELP YOU WITH THOSE THINGS. Janey: YOUR BAD. Herman: JUST WANNA HELP. Janey: ITS KIND OF HARD FOR YOU TO HELP ME WHEN YOUR SO FAR AWAY. DID I WRITE ‘HARD’? LOL. Herman: NOW WHOS BAD? IM NOT THAT FAR AWAY. WHERE DO YOU LIVE EXACTLY? She told him. Right down to the street and number. Herman told her he could drive there in an hour and a half. Janey: WHAT DO YOU DO? Herman: I WORK IN THE FINANCIAL INDUSTRY. WHAT ABOUT YOU? Janey: DONT LAUGH OK? Herman: I WONT. Janey: IM A WAITRESS. AT HOOTERS. Herman: NO. Janey: SWEAR TO GOD. HAVE TO WEAR THE UNIFORM AND EVERYTHING. Herman: I LIKE UNIFORMS. ALL KINDS. Janey: I DONT EVEN KNOW HOW OLD YOU ARE. Herman: I TOLD YOU. IM 35. WHAT ABOUT YOU? Janey: IM 21. I KNOW THAT’S KIND OF YOUNG. ARE YOU OK WITH THAT? Herman: IM OKAY WITH IT IF YOU ARE. Janey: IM PROBABLY NOT AS EXPERIENCED AS YOU. Herman: DONT WORRY ABOUT THAT. IM NOT THE MOST EXPERIENCED GUY EITHER. WE CAN TEACH EACH OTHER. Janey: IM KIND OF EMBARRASSED TO TALK ABOUT THIS, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT ID LIKE TO LEARN HOW TO DO BETTER ON A GUY? Herman: WHAT? She told him. That was when Herman knew that even if Janey were a ten-hour drive away, he’d get in that car without a second thought. Janey: OH MY GOD I CANT BELIEVE THE THINGS I’VE WRITTEN IM GOING TO HAVE TO DELETE ALL THIS. Which gave Herman the idea that maybe he’d better do the same. Connecting with Janey, it sure had come at a good time. Herman had been feeling pretty down for a while. Amy, who he’d been going out with off and on for four years, had dumped him three months ago, and – get this – was already married. Which told Herman she had to have been going with this guy while she was still seeing him. Instead of getting angry, he grew increasingly depressed. Found it hard to get up in the morning. Sat around watching TV. Started eating more. Fast food, ice cream, those prepackaged cupcakes with the little white swirl on them, bowls of Doritos when he was parked in front of the flat screen.
3 He went to see the doctor, who was concerned about Herman’s mental state, and the overeating. “Just because you’re a young man,” the doctor’d told him, “doesn’t mean you can get away with this kind of behavior. It’s not just old farts who get heart attacks. And you have to look at why you’re eating like this. Get at the root of your unhappiness. Get out there. Have some fun. Meet somebody.” Stupid doctor made it sound so easy. But then, whaddya know, he connects with Janey online. Finding a new girlfriend might be just the ticket. Especially one who wanted to practise improving her technique on him. He and Janey made plans to meet Friday night. Herman had wondered about Thursday, but if he ended up staying the night with her, he didn’t want to have to get up early Friday to get to work on time. He got behind the wheel of Inifiniti as soon as he finished work, hit the highway, right in the thick of rush hour. Son of a bitch. What should have been a drive of maybe ninety minutes was going to take him a good two hours, maybe three. Janey had asked him to call when he was about ten minutes out. SO I CAN GET READY, she’d written. DONT FEEL YOU HAVE TO CHANGE OUT OF THAT HOOTERS OUTFIT, he wrote back. About an hour into the drive, traffic thinned, and he floored it to make up for lost time. Every few seconds he glanced into his rear view mirror to make sure there were no cops chasing him. He thought about what he was doing, whether he was taking a risk. Here he was, after all, driving an hour to a strange house, to meet a strange girl, in a town he’d never even been to before. Was that smart? Herman had to admit, he was not totally thinking with his brain. But really, in theory, wasn’t it the girl who was taking the bigger risk in a situation like this? Meeting a strange guy who could be, for all she knew, some kind of axe murderer? Herman knew he wasn’t a threat to Janey, so in his mind, that made everything okay. This was going to something, yes it was. He could hardly wait to – He heard the siren. Saw the flashing lights in his mirror. “Goddamn,” he said under his breath. * * * They always needed three in the house to do everything properly. Dennis, in his sport jacket and tie, with a mike clearly clipped to his lapel, would do the talking. Gordie worked the camera, one of those big suckers the TV stations used that you had to rest on your shoulder. It had the station’s call letters, WCAT, emblazoned on the side. Last, but not least, Janey herself, who really wasn’t twenty-one, and really wasn’t a blond. Nor was her name Janey. Her name was Patrice, and she was forty, and she had red hair, and she didn’t look anything like the picture that had been posted online, although if you were the kind of person who paid attention, you might recognize her. Certainly in this town. They had a large light set up in the kitchen, which they’d flip on when Gordie turned on the camera. Also a boom mike, in a big furry sock, suspended over the kitchen island, so they could pick up everything Herman had to say. Dennis had his routine all worked out. He’d done it enough times. Ask the subject what the hell he was doing here, what he had in mind, tell him that if he was thinking of running, there wasn’t much point because the place was surrounded by the police. Dennis would tell the subject that he might not have noticed them outside the house, but they were very definitely there. If Herman turned out to be like most guys, he’d stand there dumbfounded, say he had no idea what the hell they were talking about, that they had him all wrong. Then Dennis would show him the evidence, watch the guy squirm as the camera began to roll.
4 Round about that time, Patrice, AKA Janey, would come out and say a few words about the online chats she’d had with the man. Recount the things he’d said in his messages, how creeped out she’d been. Look into the camera, shrug, indicating to the at-home audience that even though this was a sick business she was involved in, if it got one more pervert like this off the street, then it was worth it. Around about that point, the guy would probably start protesting even louder, accuse them of setting him up, say his words had been twisted, claim not to know Janey – the online Janey, that is – was underage. Then they’d show him the transcript of the messages, point it out to him, get him to look at it, the camera closing in on the printout, so viewers could read for themselves where Janey had identified herself as underage. Herman would probably tell them this would get him fired, ruin his reputation in the community. His friends and family would disown him. Then it would probably hit him that those were the least of his problems. There was every reason to believe he’d be charged by those cops waiting around for him outside. He’d have to get himself a lawyer. He could end up doing time. Under the hot light, he’d be sweating for sure. About an hour ago, the cell phone in Patrice’s hand went off. “Yeah?” she said. “Hey, it’s Herman. I’m kind of running late.” “What’s happened? I’m dying here, can’t wait to see you.” She wasn’t just good at pretending on the keyboard. She could act, too. “The traffic was bad, and then I got pulled over.” “What?” “I was, you know, speeding.” He tried to laugh. “Okay, look, like I said, when you’re ten minutes away, let me know.” “Oh yeah, I will.” Patrice ended the call. “Shit,” she said. “He got held up.” “Held up?” Dennis said, alarmed. “Not that kind of held up. Bad traffic, speeding ticket,” she said. Gordie grinned. “It’s really not going to be his night.” “No shit,” said Patrice. Dennis said, “Turn off that light for now. It’s hot as hell in here.” He went back to reading his notes, prepping himself. He hated to flub a line when Gordie was holding up the camera. Then, finally, Patrice’s cell rang again. “Almost there,” Herman said. “Awesome,” Patrice said, because that struck her as the kind of thing that Janey would say. She ended the call and said to Dennis and Gordie, “Places, everyone.” * * * Herman brought the Infiniti to a stop outside the suburban address he’d been given. It was dark and the streetlamps had come on. He noticed a few dark cars parked alongside the curb, but there was nothing going on that he could see. He got out of the car, locked it with the remote, and walked down the driveway to the side door. He’d brought a long a six-pack of beer. Never go anywhere without a hostess gift, his mother’d always told him. Herman rapped on the door. From inside, a woman’s voice shouted: “Come in!” Tentatively, he turned the knob and stepped into the house. It was mostly in darkness, but there was some faint light spilling in from a nearby room. “Hello?” he called out.
5 “Herman?” “Yeah, it’s me!” “Hey, I’m just still getting ready. Go on into the kitchen and I’ll be there in a minute.” “Sure thing!” he said. He could feel his heart beating like it was going to pop out of his chest. The room he’d entered was a kind of mud room. A place to hang your coat, take off your boots. The kitchen, he was guessing, was to the left. He was right. It was still mostly in darkness. The light was coming from a living room beyond the kitchen. He ran his hand along the wall, looking for a switch, found one, and flipped it up. What the hell? There was a metal stand supporting a large light, and a second stand with something big and black and furry hanging from it. Herman realized it was a microphone. The light went on, so bright at first it was blinding. Herman threw his hand over his eyes and aside and said, “Jesus!” “Hello, Herman.” A man’s voice. Slowly, Herman took his hand away, gave his eyes a moment to adjust. Two guys in front of him. One, in a sport jacket and tie, a mike clipped to his lapel, standing there with a clipboard or something in hand. Herman could barely make out the other guy because most of his head was obscured by the camera resting on his shoulder. With WCAT-TV in huge letters on the side. The lens was pointed straight at his face. “What the hell is this?” Herman asked. “Where’s Janey?” Now a woman entered the room, standing just behind the guy in the sport jacket. She was in jeans and a oversized sweatshirt. No Hooters uniform. “Hello, Herman,” she said. “Shit, you’re not – what’s going on here?” “I’ll take it from here,” the man said to the woman. “Herman, do you know who I am?” “I’ve got no fucking idea.” “My name is Dennis Burnside. And this is my cameraman, and that was Patrice, and we’re all with WCAT News.” “I don’t understand.” “Perhaps you know our show? Perv Patrol?” “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m out of here.” “I wouldn’t do that, Herman. You see, the house is surrounded by the police. Sitting out there in unmarked cars. The moment you walk out that door, they’re going to pounce on you, arrest you.” “For what? What the hell do you think I did?” “Why are you here, Herman? What made you drive down here?” “I … I kind of had a date.” “A date with who?” Dennis asked. “Janey. She said her name was Janey. I’m guessing it was that woman who was just here, although she doesn’t look anything like her picture.” “And what did you think was going to happen between you and Janey?” “Look, what the hell business is it of yours? Since when can’t two consenting adults meet and have a date?” Dennis smiled and nodded. “I think the key word there is ‘adult,’ Herman. But you weren’t arranging to get together for a date with an adult.” “Sure I was,” Herman said. Dennis looked down at his clipboard, flipped through the pages that were there. “You
6 know what I have here, Herman? What I have here is a transcript of the online chat you and Janey had.” “Okay. So?” “It gets kind of hot and heavy here.” “Like I said, so?” “I want to draw your attention to one part in particular. Janey says to you, I don’t even know how old you are, and you say, I told you, I’m 35. What about you? And Janey says, I’m twelve. I know that’s kind of young. Are you okay with that?” “What? Wait, no that’s not what --” “And you say, I’m okay with it if you are. Janey says, I’m probably not as experienced as you, and you tell her not to worry about that, that you’re not the most experienced guy either, that you can teach each other.” Dennis looked up from the script he was reading and shook his head disapprovingly. “What were you thinking, Herman?” “You’ve got it wrong,” Herman protested. “She didn’t tell me she was twelve. She told me she was twenty-one. You’ve got the numbers reversed.” Dennis shook his head. “That’s not what I have here.” “Let me see that!” Herman said and stepped forward. He went to grab the clipboard but Dennis moved it away. “You can’t touch, but I’ll show you what it says,” Dennis Burnside said, turning the clipboard so Herman, and the cameraman, could zero in on it. “You see that right there?” Dennis said, pointing with his finger. “She’s typed the number 12.” “No way,” Herman said. “That’s not what she told me.” “This is an actual printout of the exchange,” Dennis said. “It’s quite clear. Unless you have a printout that says something different.” “I – I deleted mine,” Herman said. “But I swear, on my version, it said she was twentyone. I swear to God it did.” Dennis waved his hand dismissively. “You know what this makes you, Herman? This makes you a child predator. A man who wants to engage in sexual activity with an underage girl. Is this something you’ve done before? Is Janey the first, or have you been doing this kind of thing for years?” Herman, exasperated, said, “You have this all wrong. There is no way I thought this girl was twelve. I’m not like that. I’m not some kind of freak. I don’t like little girls. That’s totally messed up. I’d never do that.” “That’s what they all say at this point,” Dennis said. “You know what this is going to do to you, Herman? You know what this obsession, this perversion is going to cost you? A criminal charge, to begin with. You’ll be taken to the police station, have your mugshot taken, you’ll be fingerprinted. Then the police will issue a press release on your arrest. It’s only a matter of time before your employer finds out, and chances are very good they’re going to fire you. Your friends and family – they won’t know what to make of this. They’re going to be horrified, Herman. Absolutely horrified, ashamed, disappointed. And of course, once our segment airs, complete strangers are going to recognize you. It’s not going to be nice. Eventually, there’ll be a trial, and if past experience is any guide, judges don’t look kindly on -- ” “Stop, please stop,” Herman said. He was holding his right hand on his stomach, like he was going to be sick. “Judges don’t look kindly on this sort of thing. What’s really interesting is, even in prison, where you’d think there’s no moral code whatsoever, they take a pretty dim view of child molesters and -- ”
7 “Stop it! Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me this way?” “I just want you to know what you can expect,” Dennis said, kindly, like he was doing Herman a favor. “I’ll be ruined,” Herman said. “Completely ruined.” “Yes,” Dennis said. “That’s fair to say.” He paused. “However -- ” “I’m totally fucked,” Herman said. “My life is over. As of this moment, my life is completely over.” “I can certainly see how you would see it that way, Herman. But -- ” Herman’s hand moved up to his stomach to his chest. Then his other hand swept up. Both hands, clutched to his chest. “Shit,” he said. Not loud, almost a whisper. Hands still holding his chest, Herman stumbled toward the wall and slid down it, tipping sideways along the way. His body came to rest on the floor, then rolled he rolled over onto his stomach. Didn’t move. “Jesus,” Dennis said. “He had a fucking heart attack!” shouted Gordie, the cameraman, who, always the professional, kept the camera focused on Herman. Patrice ran back into the room, but the moment she saw the body she shrieked. “What happened?” she asked. Dennis stood there, shaking his head, dumbfounded at first, then becoming angry. He took a couple of tentative steps toward the body and started shouting at it. “You stupid son of a bitch! You goddamn stupid son of a bitch! You couldn’t wait! I was one second from making the pitch! One bloody second! You had a way out of this!” “Dennis, what the hell are we going to do?” Patrice asked. “Shut up! Shut up! I’m thinking.” He turned away from Herman’s body, put his hand over his mouth. “We need to call 911,” Gordie said. “Maybe they can do that thing, with the things that look like irons, they electrocute his heart?” “Paddles,” Patrice said. “Huh?” Gordie said. “They call them paddles.” “Are you out of your mind?” Dennis snapped at the two of them. “We’re gonna call 911? What the hell are we going to tell them? Huh? What are we going to say?” It would have been reasonable to assume that, with police surrounding the house, they wouldn’t even have to dial 911. They could just pop outside and ask for assistance. Except there were no police surrounding the house. Dennis had never hosted a television show in his life. Gordie barely knew how to run that camera.The furry overhead microphone wasn’t hooked up to anything. Patrice did not work for a program called Perv Patrol, because there was no such program. Her face was known locally, but that was from the real estate signs she had all over town. She was, in fact, trying to sell this house while the owners were vacationing in Florida. She had taken the sign off the lawn before Herman showed up. The script Dennis had been reading from was doctored. The number referring to Janey’s age had, in fact, been reversed, as Herman had claimed. “You should have done it sooner,” Gordie said. “Put it out there right away. Told him he could buy his way out of -- ” “You think I don’t know that!” Dennis said. He looked accusingly at Patrice. “Why didn’t you find out if he had a heart condition?” “Seriously?” Patrice asked. “What do you want me to do? Have all our victims fill out a
8 health questionnaire first? Ask them, are you the kind of person who might have a seizure when blackmailed?” “Okay, okay, fine, I get it. But who the hell could have guessed the asshole would drop dead?” “I’m gettin’ out of here,” Gordie said. Dennis pointed at him. “The hell you are. We have to figure out what we’re gonna do about this.” “Let’s just pack up our stuff and go,” Gordie said. “Are you kidding?” Patrice said. “I’ve got an open house here on Sunday. ” “I’m gonna be sick,” Gordie said. “Gotta get some air.” “You’re not leaving,” Dennis said, menace underlying his tone. “I’m gonna need help carrying this guy out of here. Patrice isn’t strong enough.” “Fine, fine, I’ll be back. I’ll put the camera in the car, see if I’ve got any tarps or bags for stuff. Maybe that’ll help.” “Christ, we’re not going to cut him up, are we?” Patrice asked. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Dennis said. “It’s not just him we’ve got to get rid of. There’ll be a car out there. We’re going to have to get rid of his car. What we should do is, we put the body in the trunk, drive it somewhere, like a Walmart parking lot or something. Be a few days before anyone notices it, once he starts getting ripe.” “Wait,” Patrice said. “It’s not like we shot him. You put him in the trunk, looks suspicious. What if, I don’t know, you park the car down some side street, leave him behind the wheel. Cops’ll think he pulled over and just died.” “You think cops won’t notice that? Moving his body a whole bunch of times before you actually get him in the driver’s seat? Have you never watched TV?” “Rigid mortar might have set in by then,” Gordie said. Dennis gave him a look and sighed. Wearily, he said, “I had this guy all checked out. He had a shitty job, but he had money. Inherited. Lots of it. We could have asked for a hundred grand to forget about doing the segment. He’d have given it to us. He’d have begged us to take it.” Gordie, heading out the door with his camera, said, “Back in a sec for the light and stuff.” “It’s always gone off without a hitch before,” Patrice said, glancing at the body, then looking away. “I am not cutting this guy up. That’ll make a huge mess.” “We need his keys.” “What?’ “We’re going to need his keys. See if they’re in his jacket.” “No way.” “It’ll only take a second. Just get them.” “You get them,” Patrice said. Dennis sighed, approached the body like it was bomb that could detonate at any moment. The right side of Herman’s coat was exposed, but the left was tucked under his body. “Please be in that pocket,” Dennis said under his breath. He stuck his hand in, felt something jingle, drew out a set of keys. “Bingo,” he said. Examining the remote, he said, “An Infiniti. Told you the guy had bucks. Fuck.” “Where the hell is Gordie?” Patrice said. “How long does it take to put a camera in the car?” Dennis whipped his head around. “That son of a bitch. He took off.” Patrice ran to the living room window, pulled back the curtain just enough to see the street, and said, “His car’s still there.”
9 “You see him?” “No.” Dennis joined her at the window, peered outside. “Where the hell is he?” “Maybe he’s coming around the side of the house.” They waited, thinking if that was the case, he’d be through the door any second. But he was not. “He’s not going to take off without his car,” Dennis said. He got out his cell phone, made a call. “Come on, pick up, you stupid – it’s gone to voicemail. Okay, look, you stay here, I’ll see if I can find him.” “No,” Patrice said. “You’re not leaving me with him.” “He’s not going to bite you,” Dennis said, and went out the door. “Jesus,” Patrice whispered under her breath. She leaned up against the fridge, as far as she could get away from Herman’s body and still be in the kitchen. He was like a car accident. You didn’t want to look, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him, either. She had to leave the room. She went down the hall and into the bathroom, ran some water from the tap into her cupped hand, and had a small drink. She placed both hands on the counter, looked into the mirror and stared into her own eyes. “Idiot,” she said. Why’d she ever taken up with Dennis in the first place? Sure, he had some good ideas, and this scam he’d dreamed up had made them some good money in the past, but they’d never had one go wrong. Real estate wasn’t great these days, but at least she was making a living. Why’d she have to be greedy? Why’d she have to get into this on the side? Dennis said it was perfect, all these houses she had to look after while the owners were away. The homes were great for staging their performances. Patrice wondered why she hadn’t heard Dennis come back into the house, with or without Gordie. She walked back into the living room and peered through the curtains. Gordie’s car still there, but no sign of him, or Dennis, either. Instead of going to the door at the side of the house, she went to the front one, turned back the deadbolt, opened it, and whispered out into the darkness: “Dennis? Gordie? Guys?” When she heard no response, she closed the door, locked it. Patrice didn’t want to go out there. But she didn’t much want to stay in here, either, with a dead guy. She went back into the kitchen, stood a few feet away from Herman, looked at him and said, “You stupid sack of shit. You worthless pile of crap. If you weren’t such a perverted, useless excuse for a human being, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now.” At which point, Herman rolled over and said to her, “You’re no fucking prize yourself.” Once again, Patrice screamed. This time, maybe even a little louder. * * * The front and side doors burst open simultaneously. The front one, locked, took half the frame with it as it swung inward. The house filled with people. Nine men, one woman, all with guns drawn, arms outstretched, bulletproof vests strapped to their bodies. “Freeze!” someone yelled. “Police!” All weapons were trained on Patrice. “On the floor!” someone barked. Patrice threw herself down onto the linoleum. Another cop pulled Patrice’s hands behind her back and slipped a set of plastic cuffs onto her wrists. Herman slowly started getting to his feet. For a man who’d just
10 had a heart attack, he looked remarkably well. The female cop, wearing a tag that identified her as “Swanson,” pulled him aside into the living room. “Ever thought you’d get to do a death scene?” “It was good, huh?” Herman said, looking at her admiringly. “Although I think I might have done something to my ankle when I fell down. Is that what they call a Kevlar vest? It looks very nice.” The police, as it turned out, were already onto the racket that Dennis, Gordie, and Patrice were running, but had been hoping to catch them in the act. They’d had the house bugged, and were waiting for the trio to find their next mark. When they learned it was going to be Herman, they pulled him over en route as he cruised along the highway at nearly ninety miles per hour. Gave him a choice, too. He could help the police bring down these people, or face a dangerous driving charge and lose his car and license. Herman saw the light. Swanson took a full statement from Herman as the three con artists were put into separate cruisers. “We’re going to be calling you to testify,” she said. Herman nodded. “Am I going to come out looking bad?” he asked. “We’ll do our best to make you look like a hero,” Swanson said. “That’d be good,” he said, then paused, as though he was having a difficult time finding the words. “What is it?” Swanson asked. “I was wondering, are you online? Do you think -- ” “Jesus,” she said, turned and walked away. It was something about the vest. He’d figured it was worth a shot.