Any Time at All

I was working the counter at our auto parts store when a man in a suit stepped up and flashed some sort of official looking ID at me. He then asked if I was Bill Evans.

"Why don't you show me your identification a little more slowly?" I asked politely. "That was a little quick."

The guy scowled as he once again pulled his wallet from his pocket and flopped out some impressive looking credentials. I carefully read everything before snapping a picture with my phone.

"I don't think you can do that!" he protested.

"Did you see me do it?" I asked with a little grin.

"Hell, yes. You just took a picture of my ID. How do I know what you'll do with it?" he asked with some concern.

"One thing at a time," I responded. "I can do it. You saw it happen. What do most people do with a picture of the ID of a police detective? Maybe use it to remember his name and badge number in case shit hits the fan?"

"You're acting pretty damn guilty for a guy who hasn't been accused of anything," replied the man I now knew to be Detective Sampson.

"You're acting pretty damn untrusting for a detective who's never accused me of any wrong-doing," I countered.

I had been around cops all my life. I had a healthy respect for the good ones and total contempt for those who were less than professional. My cousin, Joe, was a good cop. He was the one who told me to always get a picture of any ID from anyone who felt the need to show it. He told me many plain clothes law enforcement people tried to be somewhat anonymous as they strove to ruin your life.

"Where were you last night at midnight?" demanded the man.

The customer behind him in line was paying close attention to the entire situation. I didn't know what the detective was looking for, but I was certain it would be better to handle it in private. I called Jeff to come out front to handle the counter for a few minutes.

"Come on back to my office and we'll discuss this without spectators," I instructed the detective, who was obviously becoming impatient.

Once we were seated in my office, he jumped back in with his questions. "Where were you last night at midnight?"

"If you ever come into my business again and blurt out accusations and questions so my customers and employees can hear you, I'll toss your ass out the door. Try to act like a professional," I admonished.

"You can't throw me out. I'm a police detective," he insisted.

"Do you have a warrant?" I demanded.

"No. I'm just here to ask some questions," he answered, but with less rancor.

"That's why I suggested we come back here to my office. You have the right to ask questions and I have the right to throw your ass off my property. I'm willing to speak with you, but there's no reason to involve my customers," I explained before addressing his question.

"I was home all night. I left work yesterday at four and was home by four-thirty. I never left the house again," I assured Sampson.

"Can anyone verify your claim?" asked the detective.

"Well, my daughter and wife were home all night with me, so I'd say they both would be more than willing to vouch for my whereabouts," I reasoned.

"Your wife said you slept on the couch last night. You could have left for a few hours and returned home without anyone knowing you were ever gone," stated Detective Sampson.

"You already spoke to my wife?" I asked in surprise. "She told you I slept on the couch last night?"

"How well did you know Barry Lassiter?" was his next question.

"I never heard of the guy. I don't think I ever met him," I answered. "It's possible he's bought some parts from us, but the name isn't familiar."

"Do you know where he lived?" continued Sampson.

"I notice your questions refer to him in the past tense. If I didn't know the guy, it follows I have no idea where he lived," I offered. "Is there a reason I should?"

"Did your wife ever mention him? Did you ever see any emails or texts he sent to your wife?"

"You seem to have a way of asking the same question with different words. I think when I say I never heard the name, you can assume that also means I never read it, felt it, or even smelled it," I responded. "I do smell a rat, however. Why are you asking me about this guy?"

"He was beaten to death last night. At this time, you're a person of interest in the investigation. Do you want to change your story now?" asked Sampson.

"Wow! You sure slid that question in cleverly," I replied in fake awe. "Why would I kill a guy I never knew, never met and never even heard of?"

"Some husbands become enraged when they find out their wife's been having an affair. They even become violent and lash out at her lover," replied Sampson, as he watched me closely for my reaction.

"Are you fucking telling me Mary's been banging this dead prick?" I angrily demanded. "Son of a bitch! How long has that been going on?"

"Your wife claims only two months," answered the detective. "How long have you known, or suspected?"

"About a minute, Asshole!" I yelled at the dumb bastard. "This interview is over! I have to go home and talk to my wife!"

"That won't be possible," Detective Sampson informed me. "There's a restraining order keeping you at least a hundred yards from her. You can't go home.

"She's worried that you might cause her bodily harm. She told us you have a bad temper. If you did know about her affair with Mr. Lassiter, she believes you could possibly become angry enough to kill him," stated Sampson as he studied his notes. "She and your daughter both felt it was better to seek a restraining order, just to be on the safe side."

"Mary said that?" I asked as I slumped back in my chair. "She's not only cheating on me, but she told the cops I was capable of killing her lover? Now she's afraid of me? Cindy's afraid of me, too?

"All I've ever done is love them both. I've always been close to my daughter. I thought Mary and I had a good marriage. Now you're telling me they're both afraid of me? They think I might be a murderer?"

"Is there any information you can give me that might help me believe you didn't kill your wife's lover?" asked Sampson.

"The fact I didn't know the guy and never even realized Mary had a lover should be a huge hint," I suggested.

"We'll be interviewing you again, Mr. Evans. We'll follow every lead to find and convict the person responsible for this crime. In the mean time, don't leave town."

"Holy shit, Marshall Dillon! You think you have the authority to tell me I have to remain in Blandon until you give me permission to leave? You just told me Mary has a restraining order on me. You can arrest me if I get within a few hundred feet of her at any time!

"Here's my card. I'll fucking go where I want to go, as long as it's away from here. I'll only be a phone call away if you need me," I replied as I handed him my business card.

"I just told you not to leave town!" snarled the detective. "I mentioned you to Mayor Smith this morning. The thought of putting you in jail for the next twenty years seemed to appeal to him. You can't fight city hall, Asshole."

"I supported Ben Rodgers for Mayor when he ran against Smith. That's no reason to want me in jail," I protested.

"You made a few remarks wondering how Mayor Smith could have such powerful backing for a small town mayor. You told voters you were curious what he did to garner that kind of support," recalled Sampson. "He didn't appreciate your insinuations. If you leave town, I'll have the backing of the mayor's office when I drag your sorry ass back to stand trial."

"Fuck you!" I shouted back. "This is still America, and no two-bit flatfoot is going to tell me what the fuck I can, or can't do."

That was the first time I ever used the term flatfoot, but it felt right to me. I was having a lot of trouble digesting all the information I had just received and wasn't in a forgiving mood.

"Get your ass out of here before I call some real cops, Asshole!" I yelled as I opened the office door. So much for keeping my personal problems from my employees and customers.

Detective Sampson marched out of my office with a sneer on his face. At that moment, I realized he'd do anything possible to prove me guilty of murder. My brother, Dennis, came around the corner, stepped into my office, closed the door and sat down.

"What the fuck just happened?" he asked softly.

I quickly recounted the gist on my encounter with Detective Sampson. I ended my version of events by repeating how the bastard had told me to not leave town and how he had even mentioned that Mayor Smith wanted me put away.

"So where will you go?" asked Dennis. "You can't stay around here. That asshole will be out to get you, and I hate to think what might happen if you run into Mary. It would surely involve jail time for you."

"I was thinking the same. Thanks for seeing things my way," I responded. "I'll just get in my truck and start driving. Hopefully they'll find the upstanding citizen who pounded that wife-stealing prick to death. If he can't pay for a lawyer, I'll help him get a good one. I owe the guy."

"Don't even think about going home," suggested Dennis. "Just start driving. Use the business card to buy anything you need. Take your laptop so I can keep you updated on everything. I'll let you know about any developments here. Stay safe, and keep your nose clean. "

I found myself driving south on Route 81 at three o'clock that afternoon. As I drove, I thought about how drastically my life had changed in a very short time.

Mary and I had argued about sex the previous night. More precisely, it was the lack of sex that had me agitated. Mary had been distant and cold to me for a few weeks, and I had grown tired of it. Throughout our marriage, we had always been able to find time a couple times a week to enjoy a round or two of lovemaking, but not lately.

Last night, she turned me down again. I wasn't really surprised, but I was pissed. I told her if there was something wrong, she needed to tell me. I couldn't fix it if I didn't know what it was.

She accused me of being selfish and not considering her feelings. Just because I wanted to get my "rocks off", it didn't mean she had to lie down and spread her legs for me. She told me she needed to be romanced and courted, made to feel desired and loved. That was when I left to sleep on the couch.

Now I knew why she wasn't interested in sex with me. She was getting all she wanted someplace else, and I was the odd man out. Just thinking about how she shut me out while she was getting all the sex she could handle pissed me off even more. What a bitch!

I wound up in western Tennessee the next afternoon. I stopped at a small park in some Podunk town to walk a little and get the stiffness out of my legs and back.

I had been walking for only a few minutes when I noticed a scruffy looking guy headed toward me. I always felt I could handle myself, so I wasn't overly concerned about him. Then he pulled a handgun and pointed it at my chest.

"I want you to come with me," was all he said as he nodded toward an old Ford Explorer.

As we approached it, he opened the passenger door and motioned me inside. Once I was seated and buckled, apparently the guy was safety conscious; he quickly circled the vehicle and climbed in behind the wheel.

"Pull that bag from the back seat and put the stuff on that's in it," he ordered.

I was waiting for an opportunity to wrest the gun from his hand, but he never gave me one. He looked scruffy, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

I took the bag and pulled out what appeared to be a long lab coat, along with a floppy brimmed hat, latex gloves and a pair of dark sunglasses. The guy pulled over and parked by a deserted saw mill. He had me unbuckle my seat belt and put the smock on. By the time I had it buttoned and had donned the hat, glasses and gloves he was dressed identically.

"Let me guess, we're going to a masquerade party as the Blues Brothers?" I nervously joked, hoping to get the guy to open up. He just snorted and motioned for me to buckle my seat belt.

I got a bad feeling when he pulled into a bank parking lot five minutes later. He motioned for me to sit still. He climbed out of the SUV and came around to open my door. As he did so, he handed me a cloth bag.

"You'll hold it open while I stuff money in it," was all he said.

It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest he reconsider his less than well conceived plan when he pointed the gun at my face and nodded toward the bank.

Surprisingly, it took the two tellers what felt like a very long time to notice there was something amiss. Their smiles finally evaporated when my captor pointed his gun at them.

"Put all the cash in the bag the asshole's holding open," he demanded in a tone which indicated he didn't consider me an equal partner.

The tellers struggled to place the cash in the bag because they couldn't quite get their hands under the thick acrylic plate which the bank officials had erected for their safety. After fumbling for half a minute or so, they simply began sliding the money under the panel as I swept it into the sack.

The bag was almost full when the faint sounds of wailing sirens in the distance drifted into the financial institution. The approaching sirens filled me with fear, which almost caused me to fill my shorts.

"Goddamn it!" yelled my fellow larcenist. "I told you bitches not to trigger the alarm!"

As he made that curse, he pointed his weapon at a teller, the redhead with the large rack, and pulled the trigger. His hat suddenly flew from his head as he staggered backward. I noticed blood quickly begin to trickle down over his left eye.

He shook his head a couple of times and raised his gun toward the other teller, a blonde with smaller tits, but a great smile. As he pointed his weapon, I glanced toward the teller. I realized the reflection in the acrylic, or whatever the hell it was, allowed me to see my cohort's face as he aimed his gun.

More precisely, I was able to look down the barrel of his handgun! I wasn't the best pool player in the world, but I knew how the hell to make a bank shot. It looked like I was about to be bank shot, both literally and even more literally! With no time for rational thought, I whipped the bag of money up in front of my head.

The sack jerked in my hand just as Clyde discharged another round. Suddenly a plume of red liquid exploded out the hole made by the caroming slug when it struck the sack, which I had used, again literally, to save face. I had dodged a bullet, also literally.

The dye couldn't have traveled any truer if I had been able to aim it. My fellow highwayman was quickly covered in red ink from bloody head to mid-chest. Luckily, not so much as a drop of ink touched me or my clothing.

He was wiping the blood and ink from his eyes as he swung his weapon in my direction. That was when I decided it was time make my exit. The passenger window of his Explorer was shattered by another bullet as I made my way out the door.

I turned left and broke into a dead run into a wooded area as the wailing sirens pulled into the parking lot. Fortunately, there was a path through the woods, so I was able to maintain a brisk pace. After running what I gauged to be three miles through the woods, I came into a clearing on a knoll. I stopped to take inventory of the situation, as well as to determine if any blood hounds were barking on my trail. I immediately saw the very park in which I had been walking when Dillinger had abducted me!

I was thankful that several years ago I had started running five miles, three times a week to lose weight and get into shape. I had even placed third in a 10K race in Blandon last spring. I wasn't even breathing hard as I considered my situation.

My truck was about half a mile from my location. I watched to see if any police had staked out my car. After a few minutes, I was quite certain the park was completely void of human life.

I saw what looked like a woodchuck hole near an old ash tree. I pulled off the lab coat I had worn during the heist and shoved it down the hole. Then I pushed the hat in after it and kicked enough dirt in it to cover the garments. I dropped the dark glasses in the hollow of a tree a hundred yards closer to the park.

That was when I realized I was still clinging to the bag of cash. The ink on it had dried. I placed the bag on the ground and opened it with a long stick. Nothing happened, so I thumped it several times with the same stick. Once again, there was no further discharge of red ink.

It seemed that the tellers had only slipped one ink charge in with the cash. The ricocheting bullet had caused the dye pack to explode. It appeared a couple of bands of bills were pretty well ruined by the ink, but most of them gave little indication they had been stolen in a daring bank robbery.

Closer inspection revealed two bands of ones and a band of fives were pretty much worthless, but the larger bills remained unmarked by the red ink. I gathered the three damaged bundles and placed them in the hollow of the tree with the dark glasses.

I was pretty nervous as I approached my truck. I half expected a dozen police cars to screech to a halt, with cops jumping out and ordering me to put my hands up. Nothing happened. I started my truck and drove in the opposite direction of the bank.

It took a couple of hours for me to relax. It seemed like I had gotten away with the bank robbery! My accomplice didn't know my name, so he couldn't rat on me. The best he could do would be to describe me to the cops. I had seen enough of those artist renditions to know there was almost no chance of being identified in that manner.

The bank cameras would simply show a person covered with a lab coat, a big floppy hat and dark glasses. It would be difficult to even determine my gender under the disguise. I had not touched anything without my gloves, so there would be no fingerprints. I was pretty sure I knew the next step. The cops would be waiting for the money to show up. It seemed unlikely to me that they would have the serial numbers, unless they had a bundle with the serial numbers recorded already set aside for robbery situations.

I didn't need the money, and it looked like there was only a few thousand dollars in the bag anyway. I would have to be nuts to spend it and risk getting caught.

An hour later, I came upon a road construction site. Two lanes of cars were lined up waiting for an excavator to move across the road a short way in front of the line. A glance in my mirror told me there were no vehicles behind me.

I pulled alongside a brand new club cab Chevy Silverado with Texas plates. The bed was stuffed with two bikes, a kayak, coolers and other outdoor gear. I grabbed the bag of money from my seat and tossed it into the back of the truck. All eyes were on the huge piece of machinery crossing the highway and no one noticed the cash flow from my truck to his.

I hopped off the interstate at the next exit and drove some back roads. I finally tossed the latex gloves from a bridge into a small river. It was dark by this time, so I stopped in the next small town. I was in western South Carolina by this time.

I had some fried pickles and a pulled pork sandwich before checking into a local motel. I slept soundly for ten hours. The next morning I decided to read my emails as well as check Google for recent bank robberies. I had a short message from Dennis telling me neither my wife nor daughter had made any attempt to reach me at work. The entire town was talking about the murder.

One rumor was the cops were looking for me because I had killed Mary's lover and gone on the lam. Interestingly, a couple of other married men were also being linked to the murder as likely suspects. It seemed Barry Lassiter had quite a stable of married women, or so the rumor mill claimed.