Case Closed, Sort of

Case Closed, Sort of by Bill Capron

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 suit, 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 facility 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?”

Bob still goes out on the full moon.

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