The night’s like the day for me, but the grays are darker. I’m not fooled
by the night.
Bob, he never fooled anybody. Ten years ago he went to prison for killing
Mona. They found him with the body, the gun, and no idea of where or who he
was. It was the start of the Alzheimer’s that eventually freed him, sort of.
In the long-term care facility, he took to smoking a pipe, wearing a bow
tie and forties-type suits, like Raymond Chandler. He kept a cap pistol under
his pillow. It was loaded. And every full moon, he disappeared. He never
knew where he’d been.
That’s where I came in. I followed Bob to the underpass, the one where
Mona died. He stood, smoked his pipe, waited, then went home. I told the
manager. He said I was done, but I’m not made that way.
So, the last three full moons, I watched Bob. We were waiting for
justice.
I saw Bob’s head turn, heard the footsteps. A tall man with both hands in
the pockets of his black peacoat stopped. Bob pulled his cap gun, said,
"Hold it, Johnson."
He’d claimed some guy named Johnson killed Mona. But he couldn’t recall a
Johnson.
The man said, "Don’t shoot, Bob. I didn’t mean to kill her."
I stepped into the light. "Stay where you are, Johnson." I said, "Bob,
get the cops."
The toy pistol clattered to the ground. "Who?"