“Trueman?” asked Nora. “You’re late! Is everything okay? You’re never late.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I had a serious problem.”
“What?” she asked. “You okay? Should we come get you?”
“No, no,” I said. “I’m fine. In fact, I’ve found the evidence. It seems that Malcolm and Eddie are counterfeiters.”
As I thought about this development, several facts seemed to fall into place. The ink on Malcolm and Eddie’s knees could well have come from the counterfeiters’ ink; the distinctive cuts on both of their eyes could have come from that unique type of monocular microscope used by jewellers. Malcolm and Eddie may well have been using such a device to examine counterfeit dollar bills. The explanations for all twenty-five similarities began to form in my mind. But before they could do so, I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of men’s voices in the warehouse. I decided to start climbing down the stairs and searching the Impala for evidence.
“Trueman?” asked Nora. “If they’re counterfeiters, that means they couldn’t be diamond-cutters, right? I can leave this apartment now?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m so proud of you, Trueman!” she said. “You found the evidence! Now we can nail that jerk Malcolm!”
“Nail him?” I asked.
“Sorry, that’s another expression,” she said. “It means we can give him what he deserves. That jerk deserves jail!”
I walked through the messy yard, through the debris of car parts and oil barrels. Soon I was beside the Impala car.
“Yes,” I said. “Malcolm will get what he deserves.”
I jumped over the front hood of the Impala, trying to get to the driver’s side window, which was open. I landed on something soft and cold. It was hard to see it in the dark.
“Just a minute, Nora,” I said. “I need my flashlight.”
I switched on the tiny flashlight that was installed into my wrist TV.
“Malcolm!” I said.
“Yes!” said Nora. “We’ll give him what he deserves!”
“No!” I said. “I mean Malcolm’s here!”
“What?” she asked. “Where?”
“Under my feet!” I said.
“What?” she asked.
I had landed on Malcolm’s body, which was stuck between the Impala car and an old refrigerator. His face was blue and he was staring at me with cold, dead eyes. I felt nauseous and panicky. I’d never seen a corpse and I started screaming.
“Trueman!” shouted Nora. “What’s happening?”
Just when I felt I couldn’t be any more terrified, I heard a sound that made my skin turn cold from fright. The door leading into the warehouse opened and the mysterious man in the gray trench coat appeared. He must have heard my screams, because he looked at me and immediately started running down the stairs towards me. I jumped into the ruined Impala car and desperately searched for a place to hide. I found a tattered old coat in the back seat and hid myself underneath it. I was certain the mystery man would find me, but I couldn’t think of any other solution. I could still hear Nora shouting.
“Trueman!” shouted Nora. “Please say something!”
I switched off the wrist TV, so I wouldn’t be heard.
“Yeah, Trueman,” said a voice. “Say something.”
I didn’t want to acknowledge this horrifying situation, so I tried to pretend I didn’t hear the voice and thought of prime numbers instead. I whispered the numbers to myself.
“29, 31, 37…”
I felt two strong hands grab me and pull me out of the car window. I smelled a familiar aroma and the image of Detective Buckley formed in my mind. It was the smell of lavender, anise and vanilla. I opened my eyes and looked at the face of this mysterious man. I recognized the constellation of Orion on his cheek and realized that he was Detective Buckley.
“Say something, Trueman!” said Buckley, “Something like, what the hell you think you’re doing here!”
“Stop it!” I said. “You’re standing on him!”
“What?” he said. “Make sense, Trueman!”
“You’re standing on Malcolm Vrie!” I said.
“I’m what?” he asked.
Buckley looked down at his feet and dropped me. He took a flashlight out of his pocket and examined the corpse. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his nose. I had been so excited and shocked, I had failed to notice how much Malcolm’s corpse stank. I covered my nose with my scarf.
“Trueman,” said Buckley, “you better come with me.”
The door of the warehouse opened and a uniformed police officer appeared.
“Detective Buckley, sir,” said the cop.
“Yeah!” said Buckley.
“We’ve got all of them in custody now,” said the cop. “It looks like they were trying to dissolve some silicon counterfeiting plates with what looks like fluoroboric acid.”
“Okay,” said Buckley. “There’s a dead man down here!”
“A dead man, sir?” asked the cop.
“Yeah, that’s what I said!” said Buckley. “Get Detective Costas out here to take care of it, will ya? I’ve got to take this fella down to the station with me!”
“Yes, sir!” said the cop.
“Trueman?” asked Buckley.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Let’s get outta here,” said Buckley.
10
The Mystery of the Zeroes
A dozen police officers stood all around me. I was sitting in an office at the police station. The office was adorned with venetian blinds, fluorescent lights, cork billboards and the scent of stale coffee. I would have been delighted to be in an office that looked exactly like my granddad’s old office, but I was too tense. We had just entered the office of Chief Stokowski. The Chief, who I had met at the detectives’ convention, stared at me in a way that made me nervous.
I sat on a chair and Buckley stood beside me. He was leaning on a desk and staring at his mobile phone.
“Now, Trueman…” said Buckley, “would you care to explain to us what you were doing at the Hickson warehouse tonight?”
“I was looking for evidence,” I said.
“Evidence of what?” asked Buckley.
“I suspected Malcolm Vrie was involved in illegal counterfeiting,” I said. “And I thought the evidence would be found at Hickson warehouse.”
“You say you knew this?” asked Stokowski. “How did you know this?”
“I used my crime-fighting equation,” I said.
“What?” asked Stokowski. “What did he say, Buckley?”
“He said he used an equation,” said Buckley. “What the hell are you talking about, Trueman? Just what kind of equation are you talking about?”
“It’s a crime-fighting equation,” I said. “It’s a mathematical equation I invented that can solve crimes.”
“You don’t say?” asked Buckley.
“Yes, I do say,” I said. “Remember the time we were driving in your taxicab and you said it would be good if there was an equation for solving crime? Well, I invented one!”
Buckley sighed and looked at his mobile phone.
“Is he nuts?” asked Stokowski. “Listen, kid. You better stop lying to us. You’re in serious trouble. You’re a suspect in the murder of Malcolm Vrie! He was a good friend of mine, you know. If you killed him, I’m gonna see to it that you get nailed for it. I swear, if you killed him, I’ll string you up!”
“I didn’t kill him!” I said. “He was dead already!”
“Oh, yeah?” asked Stokowski. “Says who?”
“Says Detective Costas,” said Buckley.
“What?” asked Stokowski.
Buckley put his phone in his pocket and looked at me.
“I just got a text message from Detective Costas,” said Buckley. “He says a doctor confirmed that Vrie’s been dead for more than twenty-four hours. So Trueman, here, is telling the truth. He was already dead when Trueman found him. He’s in the clear
.”
“In the clear?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Buckley. “It means you’re innocent.”
“That’s what I told you!” I said to Stokowski.
Stokowski’s eyes narrowed and I thought I recognized an intensely negative emotion in his eyes. It was either hatred, anger or a desire to punch me in the face. Whatever it was, it made me nervous and I had to stop looking at him.
“Just who is this guy, anyways?” asked Stokowski.
“Trueman Bradley,” said Buckley. “A private detective.”
“You’re a private detective?” asked Stokowski.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Buckley. “He owns and operates a detective agency here in Manhattan.”
“Owns an agency?” asked Stokowski. “You’ve got to be joking me! This kid? How old are you kid, seventeen?”
Before I could answer him, my wrist TV made a beeping sound. I looked at it and realized Nora was sending me a text message on her wrist TV.
“Turn that thing off, will ya, Trueman,” said Buckley.
“What’s he got there?” asked Stokowski.
“It’s a wrist TV,” said Buckley.
“A what?” asked Stokowski.
“A wrist TV!” I said. “Like Dick Tracy uses.”
“The kid thinks he’s Dick Tracy now?” asked Stokowski.
Buckley shook his head and sighed.
“So it would seem,” said Buckley.
“I don’t think I’m Dick Tracy!” I said. “Not really! I’m just pretending to be him, because it helps me concentrate on being a good detective. That’s all. I know I’m not really him, but if I use a wrist TV and wear a yellow trench coat, I can imagine I’m him and it helps me imitate his detective powers.”
Stokowski scowled at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Don’t you like comic books?”
“No, I don’t like comic books!” said Stokowski. “And, what’s more, if you think being a detective is like the comic books, then you’re crazy! Take my word for it, a police detective can’t learn a thing from reading comic books!”
Stokowski looked at my trench coat and scarf, which I had taken off and hung on a coat rack, near the door. He grabbed my scarf and started examining it.
“Did you say your trench coat was yellow?” asked Stokowski.
“Yes,” I said. “And my hat and scarf are yellow, too.”
“You call this yellow?” asked Stokowski.
My scarf and coat had become white. There were a few yellow spots remaining on my trench coat but, except for that, there was nothing to prove they had ever been yellow.
“Well, I guess the acid fumes bleached them,” I said.
Stokowski put down the scarf and glared at me.
“You may not’ve killed Malcolm,” said Stokowski, “but you were trespassing! You think you’ve got the perfect right to break into Hickson warehouse and traipse around? Acting as if it’s your own private property? You’ll do jail time for that!”
“I didn’t break in!” I said.
“Oh yeah?” asked Stokowski. “Then how’d you get inside?”
Buckley coughed.
“Well…” said Buckley. “Trueman didn’t exactly break in.”
“He didn’t, huh?” asked Stokowski. “Then what happened?”
“Well, I think he was planning to break in,” said Buckley. “But he didn’t get a chance.”
Buckley turned and started talking to me.
“You see, Trueman,” he said. “It was like this. After I learned you’d started an agency, I was kind of worried you’d get in over your head.”
“Over my head?” I asked.
“Oh, right,” he said. “You don’t like expressions, huh? I meant, I thought you might get into trouble and so I followed you. Any free time I had, I’d follow you around, just to make sure you were alright, you know? Well, I was following you. I followed you into the parkland beside Hickson warehouse, but I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know where you were. It was like you vanished into thin air.”
“Oh, I was probably hiding behind the tree,” I said. “That’s why you couldn’t see me.”
“Hiding?” he asked. “Why? You knew I was following you?”
“Oh no,” I said. “I was hiding from the statue.”
I could recognize confusion on Buckley’s face.
“Hiding from a statue?” he asked. “Okay, whatever. Never mind. The point is, I lost you. I must’ve walked every inch of that park looking for you! Then, when I walked behind Hickson warehouse, I saw a lock pick stuck in the back door lock.”
“That was my lock pick,” I said. “My snake pick.”
Buckley took a long, shiny object out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was my missing snake pick.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s my favorite lock pick.”
“You’re nothing but a lock-picking thief!” said Stokowski. “So, you did pick that lock? That’s unlawful entry, buddy! You’ll do jail time for that!”
“No, sir,” said Buckley, “Trueman didn’t pick the lock. Trueman must have heard me coming and hid somewhere.”
“I hid behind the garbage can,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Buckley. “But when I saw the lock pick I figured Trueman broke into the warehouse and so I followed him.”
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“I picked the lock,” said Buckley. “Using your pick.”
“I didn’t know you can pick locks too,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s a handy skill for a detective,” he said.
“That’s what my granddad said too,” I said.
“Anyways,” said Buckley, “the door was locked when I found it. But as you might know, that kind of door locks automatically after you close it. So I imagined you’d picked the lock and then closed the door. I picked the lock and used a brick to keep the door open. You must have followed me.”
Stokowski hit his hand against his desk. His eyes were wide open and he was sweating. I couldn’t interpret his face, but he was getting excited about something.
“You morons!” said Stokowski. “What on earth are you doing picking locks and trespassing? Trueman! I should throw you in jail this very moment! And Buckley! I oughta fire you right now! What right have you got to break in without a warrant?”
“I’m not a moron!” I said. “And I didn’t trespass! Trespassing in the third degree only applies to unlawfully entering private property. Hickson warehouse isn’t private.”
“What?” asked Stokowski.
“When Hickson warehouse was built,” I said, “it blocked all access to a small piece of public parkland on the Hudson River.”
“So?” asked Stokowski.
“So,” I said, “according to my research, Jefferson Hickson, the original owner of Hickson warehouse, signed a public easement agreement with the city of New York.”
Stokowski and Buckley looked at each other.
“What does that mean, Trueman?” asked Buckley.
“Don’t you read law books?” I asked. “A public easement agreement means the owner of that land allows the public to walk through its property. In this case, he allows the public to walk through his land to get to that small piece of public parkland. Do you understand? It means I have a right to walk through his land. All of New York City has this right.”
“So, walk through his property to get to the park,” said Stokowski. “But don’t pick the lock and break in!”
“How can I walk through the property?” I asked. “He has fences with barbed wire everywhere! Walking through the building is the only way to get through the property. So, you see, I’m not breaking the law. Actually, he is breaking the law because he makes it hard for people to walk through his land, which is their right according to the law. Of course, I don’t blame him, the easement agreement is from 1952. He just forgot about it. But I didn’t forget. I memorized most of the legal cases in New York City history, from 1951 till the present.”
Stokowski glared at me, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m afraid he’s right, boss,” said Buckley. “Legally, anyone has a right to enter Hickson warehouse. The owner probably doesn’t realize that. He probably did forget about the easement agreement. Trueman, here, didn’t break any laws.”
“I wouldn’t break the law!” I said. “I’m a detective, not a criminal! I detect and punish criminals. My granddad always said never to pick a lock to enter private property, so I wouldn’t pick the Hickson warehouse’s lock if it was illegal.”
“I’m still not convinced,” said Stokowski. “I’m gonna get our lawyers to check into that. I think I can still nail you for trespassing in the third degree.”
Buckley coughed.
“Chief,” said Buckley, “with all due respect, I’m not sure Trueman, here, did anything illegal. In fact, if I hadn’t entered that warehouse and called for backup, we never would’ve known about these counterfeiters. He helped us out, you could say. Although, I grant you, he didn’t know what he was doing.”
Stokowski looked at me for a long time. The silent staring made me nervous and I wanted to hide my face behind my hands.
“How did you know about all that?” asked Stokowski.
“All what?” I asked.
“The counterfeiting!” said Stokowski.
“I told you!” I said. “I used my crime-fighting equation! And I wasn’t certain if Malcolm Vrie was counterfeiting. He could also have been cutting stolen diamonds illegally. My crime-fighting equation doesn’t always give an exact answer.”
“Crime-fighting equation?” asked Stokowski. “What the hell are you talking about?! Equations can’t solve crimes!”
“Yes they can!” I said. “I saw signs and clues on Malcolm and Eddie, and I used my equation to determine what crime they committed and it pointed me towards Hickson warehouse! It was correct, you see? Equations can solve crimes!”
“That’s nuts!” said Stokowski. “This kid’s crazy!”
“I’m not!” I said. “I solved more than one case with my equations. I also solved the case of Erik Lendaleinen. I even was able to predict Malcolm Vrie’s death! I predicted his death weeks before I even entered Hickson warehouse!”