The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  “What has Tyler told you?” I asked him. “Does he admit to shooting Richard Handy?”

  Hessler’s face seemed to flatten into an expression of irritation. “You want to hear what Tyler has told me?” he asked. Before either Ms. Washburn or I could respond, he said, “I’ll show you what Tyler has told me.”

  He gestured for us to follow him and we walked across the street to one of the four police cruisers parked in front of the Quik N EZ store. He casually tapped on the passenger-side window. It lowered and Hessler gestured toward the back seat.

  “Open it a crack,” he said.

  The officer in the driver’s seat nodded and hit the button for the rear window. It lowered about a quarter of its capacity. Ms. Washburn and I looked inside.

  In the back seat of the cruiser behind the protective barrier was Tyler Clayton, hands held behind him with handcuffs. He could not flap his hands, as I knew he most likely wished to do. Instead, he was rocking forward and back rapidly, sweating heavily and breathing with some effort although there was no evidence from our perspective that he had been in any way badly handled by the arresting officers or anyone else.

  Tyler was saying, “Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn … ”

  Ms. Washburn’s breath caught audibly. “Tyler,” she whispered.

  Hessler gestured to the officer in the car with a circular motion and the officer raised the rear car window again. It struck me as interesting that Hessler continued to use the gesture for a manual window crank when virtually every vehicle on the road now has power windows. But that was a discussion for another time, I’m sure Mother would have said.

  “That’s all he’s been saying since we got here,” Hessler said. He started to walk away from the car back to the spot where we had been standing previously. In order to hear what he had to say, I followed and Ms. Washburn followed me. “When you met him before, he could talk?”

  Both Ms. Washburn and I nodded. “Tyler is not nonverbal,” I said. “Or to be more accurate, he was not on the two other occasions we have met him. What happened in the convenience store appears to have affected his ability to form coherent speech.”

  “Maybe he’s just faking it,” Hessler suggested.

  Ms. Washburn stepped between Hessler and myself. “He’s not pretending,” she said emphatically. “Whatever he saw in that store really traumatized him. I’d suggest you make sure he sees a really good psychologist, preferably a neuropsychologist, and you get all his previous records, including the ones from his schools. Talk to his sister and his brother. Get experts involved. A man Tyler thought was his friend has been shot and killed and Tyler is being blamed for it. Anyone would be upset by that. For Tyler, it’s ten times worse.”

  Hessler, perhaps reacting to the fact that Ms. Washburn had not spoken much before since we’d arrived, stared at her for a moment. “We’ll get him evaluated. Don’t worry. But what happened in there is what he did to his ‘friend,’ so it can’t be much of a surprise.”

  “How can you be sure Tyler was the one who shot Richard Handy?” I asked. “Is there security video in the store?”

  “Yes, but we haven’t seen it yet and it looks like someone tampered with the cameras. What I can tell you is that when the first officers arrived, Handy was on the floor in front of the dairy display, dead from gunshot wounds. Tyler Clayton was standing over him, making the noise you just heard him making, and he was holding the gun in his right hand.”

  “That just means someone handed him the gun,” Ms. Washburn said. “Did anyone see Tyler actually shoot Richard?”

  Hessler gave his head a small tilt and raised his eyebrow, a movement I have studied in social skills training. It most often means that the speaker is largely certain of his statement, but allows for the possibility that he could possibly be mistaken. It is a sophisticated signal and one that takes a great deal of practice to recognize.

  “None of the witnesses have actually said they saw him pull the trigger,” he admitted. “But there wasn’t anyone else in that area of the store and they all heard the gun go off four times. The one other employee and one customer ran back there and saw Tyler Clayton standing over the body holding the smoking gun. Literally.”

  “That sounds awfully circumstantial to me,” Ms. Washburn volunteered.

  “I don’t prosecute the cases, ma’am,” Hessler said. “I just make the arrest. And we’ve made the arrest because there wasn’t anyone else there who could have done it.” He nodded in our direction. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch because I’m sure there’ll be more questions.” Then he looked directly at me. “You should be used to that, huh?” Hessler turned and walked back to the police cruiser holding Tyler Clayton.

  “That guy is not going on my Christmas card list,” Ms. Washburn said as she watched him walk away. That seemed an odd comment, so I turned toward Ms. Washburn, who looked at my face and shook her head. “I don’t mean that literally, Samuel. I would have no reason to send Detective Hessler a Christmas card.”

  “You don’t even know if he celebrates the holiday,” I pointed out.

  She held up her hands defensively. “I get that. Let’s move on. What can we do to help Tyler?”

  I felt my brow furrow. “Help Tyler?” I asked. “We are under no obligation to help Tyler. His question has been answered. Our business with him is concluded.”

  Ms. Washburn stared at me with what I can only assume was an expression of shock. “You mean you’re just going to walk away and move on to the next question?” she asked.

  “Of course. That is what we do. You know that.” I looked back at Hessler, who struck the roof of the cruiser twice, a signal that it should be driven away. The officer behind the wheel did so immediately. Hessler walked slowly back into the Quik N EZ.

  “Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “A young man came to us for help and the answer we gave to his question might very well have ruined his life. Don’t you think we have some responsibility for that? Shouldn’t we be doing our best to find out if he really did kill Richard, and if not, who did?”

  I began my walk back to Ms. Washburn’s Kia Spectra. She seemed to want to remain at the crime scene but followed me to continue our conversation.

  “I do not believe we have any responsibility for what happened here today,” I said. “Tyler asked the question. We were extremely clear that the answer would be accurate, but might not be pleasant. We delivered the answer. The actions Tyler took after that are his own responsibility.”

  Ms. Washburn seemed to have a word stuck in her throat; she coughed a bit. “So you think Tyler really did kill Richard?” she asked.

  “I think there is a good deal of evidence that he did, but as you pointed out, it is all circumstantial at this point. But circumstantial evidence is not by definition inaccurate. I am not a judge. I have no reason to question the way Detective Hessler is conducting his investigation.”

  We arrived at the car and I waited by the passenger door for Ms. Washburn to open her side and then allow me access. But she stood there and looked at me for a long moment.

  “That boy has a lot of similarities to you, Samuel,” she said in an unfamiliar tone. “You’re turning away someone who’s like you because you don’t want to admit that.”

  “I am doing nothing of the sort. My job is not to investigate crimes; that is for the police to do. My job is answering questions. I answered Tyler’s. Our best move here is to go back to our office and work on the next question.”

  She shook her head, just slightly. Then she opened the driver’s side door and sat down on the seat. Her hand hovered over the control button that would unlock the other doors in the car.

  “Ms. Washburn,” I said. “May I get in?”

  She pushed the button.

  I sat down and attached the safety harness. Ms. Washburn started the engine. Before she engaged the transmission, however, she turned to look at me.


  “Samuel,” she said. “I’m taking from what you said that you don’t intend to do any more research on what happened between Tyler and Richard today.”

  I had said precisely that. “Yes, you have interpreted me correctly.” I said.

  “Then I assume you have no objections if I do.”

  Her words took me by surprise, but I had no right to object. It had been Ms. Washburn’s husband, soon to be her ex-husband, who had objected to her working at Questions Answered. That had kept her out of the office for three months. Even as she clearly believed me to have some similarities to Tyler Clayton, I did not want her to think there was any connection in her mind between myself and her husband.

  “Of course not,” I said. “But I am dubious as to your chances of finding anything helpful to Tyler’s circumstance.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  It took me a moment to comprehend. “I am not casting aspersions on your skills,” I told Ms. Washburn. “I believe there is not very much to be found.”

  She did not turn her head because she was driving, which I appreciated. But I did see her mouth tighten and there was some movement around her eyes. “You’re giving up awfully fast, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “I am not giving up because I never began.”

  The drive to the Questions Answered office took eleven minutes to complete. Ms. Washburn and I did not discuss Tyler Clayton’s question or the murder of Richard Handy any further in that time.

  When we arrived at the office, however, we found a large man standing outside the locked door. We approached the entrance and he turned toward us.

  “Are you the guy who runs this place?” he asked. He had a gruff voice and his face appeared to express something just short of anger.

  “I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”

  The man reached over and aimed a punch at my face.

  Luckily, I am trained as a second-level black belt in tae kwon do, something Mother insisted on when I was in my teens. She thought it would help me develop a sense of discipline and she says now it was meant to introduce me to people my age with “similar interests” who might become friends. That did not happen, but I did acquire some self-defense skills.

  I ducked. The man, already starting to breathe heavily, turned to throw another punch even as Ms. Washburn shouted, “Hey!” He did not turn toward her but remained fixed on me as his target, which I preferred. I would not like to see Ms. Washburn hurt in any way.

  As he lunged, I put up my hands in a defensive pose but the man’s training was poor and his emotion, whatever it might be, was not allowing him to think through an effective strategy. He came at me leaning forward quite pronouncedly so I leaned back as I swept his legs with my left foot. He fell heavily to the pavement.

  “What is wrong with you?” Ms. Washburn demanded. I did not understand the question, even though it was not aimed at me. Did Ms. Washburn expect the man would lay out a litany of his psychological or emotional troubles simply because she had requested some information? Was it not possible that the man could have made a basic error in judgment or mistaken me for someone else? It was not a given that he had some flaw or medical condition that had precipitated his attack.

  Taking another approach, I stood over the man, who was on his back looking up at me, the rage in his face now replaced by what appeared to be exhaustion. For someone who apparently believed he could successfully overcome me physically, he was not in very good condition.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” I said. “I am Samuel Hoenig. Who are you?”

  He was still breathing rather heavily and sweat had dampened his shirt collar and was rather badly permeating his hairline. It took him six seconds to gather his breath before he spoke.

  “I’m Mason Clayton,” he said. “What did you do to my brother?”

  Eight

  Mason Clayton had asked me a question, but it was not one I found interesting enough to consider answering it professionally. Still, Ms. Washburn suggested it would be best not to have what she called “a scene” outside our offices, so I helped Mason to his feet and persuaded him to come inside to discuss his rather extravagant intrusion at the entrance to Questions Answered.

  He seemed subdued somehow, certainly less explosively angry than when he had initially confronted me. He slumped in the client chair after I advised him that Mother’s recliner was not available. He continued to keep his gaze fixed on me and paid Ms. Washburn very little attention except when she spoke. Even then he glanced at her only fleetingly.

  “I have done nothing at all to your brother Tyler,” I informed him after he repeated his melodramatic question. “He asked me a question and I answered it for him. How he chose to act after receiving that information is not my responsibility. The answer I gave him was the most accurate we could provide. Richard Handy was certainly not truly Tyler’s friend.”

  Mason shook his head as if to clear it. “That’s what he asked you? If this guy who’s dead was his friend?”

  “He was not dead when the question was asked or answered, but yes. Tyler asked if Richard was indeed a friend as Tyler had believed he was. Our research indicated that was not the case, and when I informed Tyler of that fact, he told me I was mistaken, became very upset, and left this office. We knew nothing of his whereabouts or any further developments until Detective Hessler of the Somerset Police called to tell us Richard Handy had been shot and your brother was in custody.”

  Mason’s mouth opened and closed. Then he managed, “You think he shot this guy because he found out they weren’t friends?” Again he shook his head. “That can’t be right. Tyler’s a little off, but he’s not that far gone.”

  “We don’t think he shot Richard at all,” Ms. Washburn interjected. I looked at her, surprised at the claim she’d made. I had no opinion on Tyler’s guilt or innocence, but to say that both Ms. Washburn and I had decided he did not kill Richard Handy was at best inaccurate. “We don’t believe Tyler is capable of violence like that.”

  Mason’s left eye widened a bit as he considered that. “He can be violent; I’ve seen it. But I never thought he’d do something like this.”

  Instead of informing Mason of my true thoughts, which included the possibility that Tyler had indeed shot Richard Handy in a rage, I decided to eliminate any impossibilities in order to narrow the theories. If I could convince Ms. Washburn that Tyler might indeed have done what the police believed he had, perhaps I could convince her to discontinue any investigation she might be considering.

  “Do you know where Tyler might have obtained a firearm?” I asked Mason.

  Mason looked at the floor in front of his chair. “Actually, from what I’m told, the gun was mine,” he said. “I have a license for it and a carry permit. I keep it in my bedroom but I didn’t think Tyler knew where it was. He must have gotten it out and loaded it when I was at work.”

  “You were power washing someone’s house when this happened?” Ms. Washburn said.

  Mason’s head turned swiftly. “How did you know where I work?” Then he stopped himself and nodded. “Sandy. You’ve been talking to Sandy along with Tyler, right?”

  “We are not at liberty to discuss client information,” I told him. Ms Washburn looked at me with something like amusement in her eyes, no doubt because she had said almost the same thing to Hessler and I had contradicted her.

  “You don’t have to confirm it,” Mason said. “If you think that what I do is strictly power washing houses, you’ve been talking to Sandy, all right.”

  “Is that not accurate?” I asked. Perhaps all the information Tyler and Mason’s sister had given us was suspect.

  Mason Clayton’s face contracted; he was indicating something, but I could not decipher it. “It’s one of the things I do,” he said. “We also clean gutters and leaders, we do some roofing—mostly patches—and we will paint and
seal foundations to keep water from seeping into your basement. Almost anything involved in home maintenance, we do.”

  Since I did not actually own a house—it is Mother’s name on the deed and she is two years away from paying off the mortgage—water in my basement was not an issue. But I believed that Mason was speaking in the second person only to try to personalize the service he was claiming to provide.

  “What were you doing when you got the call from the police?” Ms. Washburn asked. She knows how to make a subject feel that the conversation is about him or her and that she cares. It is a talent I would truly care to cultivate, but I think with Ms. Washburn it is genuine. She actually cares about the people who walk into our offices. I consider them the sources of questions that are interesting or are not.

  “I have a three-man crew, and we were installing six windows in a house in Metuchen,” Mason said. “When my cell phone rang I almost didn’t take the call, but it said it was the police and that made me think of Tyler.”

  “Has he run afoul of the authorities before?” I asked. Sandy had not mentioned any previous legal entanglements.

  Mason waved a hand. “Oh, no. Tyler’s a good kid, basically. He’s never been arrested or anything. When I saw the cops were calling, I got worried that he might have gotten hurt or something. He doesn’t pay attention even when he’s crossing the street, like a six-year-old. He’s engrossed in the phone, playing those games of his. So I got worried right away that something was wrong and I figured my next stop was the emergency room. Not the police station.”

  “So you went to the police station in Somerset, saw Tyler, and still got here before us?” My mind was racing. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

  For a moment Mason looked confused. “No. I didn’t go to the cops. They told me I couldn’t see Tyler for at least a couple of hours. Once I heard about you from Tyler—they let him have a phone call and he called me—I came right here.”

  “To attack me,” I said.

  Mason’s lips straightened out. “It was supposed to go differently,” he said.