Who Done It?

by Jon Scieszka

  CIA File #JXX-Q7677D [Incident Report]

  RATING: CLASSIFIED

  RECORDED 20:15:43 hours

  ADMINISTRATING: Agents Samuel L. Jaxton and Alan Rixtman

  SUBJECT: Capt. Barnabas Miller aka “Asset 7” aka “Tommy Tilex”

  AGENT SAMUEL JAXTON: All right, is SOMEBODY gonna tell me what the just happened? ’Cause I’m about to crush some skulls right now if I don’t get some answers. Captain Miller, why weren’t you at the at 1938 hours and forty-three seconds, terminating El Gato with extreme prejudice? You were supposed to zip line from the building, jump across the two roofs on and use Parkour to jump from the third floor to the second floor and back to the third floor, crash through four windows, snap the necks of those two dudes with the soul patches, slip on an argyle sweater and hipster glasses, and switch out Mildew’s runny Camembert with our cyanide-infused, undetectable Government Kill Cheese! So, do you wanna tell me what the went wrong?

  CAPTAIN MILLER: Rory, can you chill, please?

  JAXTON: For the last time, my name is not Rory! It’s Jaxton. Agent Samuel L. Jaxton! And you are “Asset 7” aka “Tommy Tilex!”

  MILLER: Rory, please. It’s me. Katie.

  JAXTON: No. You are not Katie. You’re the most ruthless killing machine north of Sao Paulo. We trained your scrawny nebbish for years, waiting for this one opportunity.

  AGENT ALAN RIXTMAN: Oh, for God’s sake, Jaxton, will you please release Captain Miller…from…that…headlock.

  MILLER: You guys, I don’t know what this whole “Captain Miller” routine is about, but—oh my God, wait. SHHHHH. It’s happening. It’s happening right now.

  JAXTON: What’s happening?

  MILLER: She has cramps. I feel her pain.

  JAXTON: What the—?

  MILLER: Her name is…J-something. It definitely starts with a “J.” Jenny or Jessica. NO, it’s Jody. Jody. It’s that time right now, you guys. This is Day One.

  JAXTON: Excuse me?

  MILLER: We can still help her if we hurry!

  RIXTMAN: My God. I know what this is, Jaxton. (Taps chin in rhythm.) I…think…I…may know…exactly…what—

  JAXTON: Stop pausing for emphasis and finish a sentence.

  RIXTMAN: Don’t you see, Jaxton? Mildew’s people have gotten to him. They’ve been on to us this entire time. They’ve erased all the memories we implanted in Captain Miller and replaced them with Katie McGrady’s memories! Miller’s been twice brainwashed, like a bag of Dole salad mix. He actually believes that he…is…Katie…Mc—

  JAXTON: WHO THE IS KATIE MC GRADY?

  RIXTMAN: Have you even read his file, Jaxton? Don’t you remember how Miller came to us in the first place?

  JAXTON: I only read cover copy.

  RIXTMAN: The boy was only twenty-two years old. He’d just written the next Catcher in the Rye and his manuscript had gotten Mildew’s attention. We knew he was our best chance to infiltrate Mildew’s organization and finally put to an end to his illegal hamster trafficking ring, so we initiated Project Kill-Dew. But it took forever for Miller to get close enough. Mildew had promised to edit Miller’s first novel, but instead, he insisted that Miller ghostwrite a series called Katie McGrady: Time-of-the-Month Psychic under the pseudonym “Solange Estranger.” It was supposed to be a six-book series, but Mildew somehow managed to sneak a clause into Miller’s contract that committed him to fifty-four more Katie McGrady books. Miller was just in the middle of revising episode 45, “I Know Why the Caged Teen Wears Sweatpants”—in which Katie and her best friend Rory Tobias try to rescue a girl from irrationally breaking up with her boyfriend—when we gave him the kill order. The poor bastard is but a pale pubescent shadow of his former self. We spent five additional years training him to write in a teenage girl’s voice, and now he is a teenage girl. And for what, Jaxton? For some illegally trafficked hamsters? To rescue the world from the smell of Herman Q. Mildew? Miller gave his brain for America, and all he ever asked of us was that we call him “The Captain,” despite the fact that he had no military rank or experience whatsoever.

  JAXTON: Damn. He’s not even a captain?

  MILLER: Um, you guys, we can’t just sit here anymore. We need to get to Jody. We need to find her NOW!

  RIXTMAN: Mildew’s going to pay for this.

  JAXTON: So what do we do with Katie?

  RIXTMAN: The only thing we can do. We help her find Jody.

  JAXTON: Whatever. Even if this Jody doesn’t exist, she has a better shot at capping Mildew than this sorry .

  Who was Herman Mildew to me? Or me to Mildew?

  You may as well ask, What’s Hecuba to him, or him to Hecuba? That’s Hamlet.

  Hamlet.

  HAM-let?

  No, it’s not about a little pig.

  Whatever.

  Herman Mildew was my editor, my muse, my lover, my prince, my nemesis, a knight with rapier red pencil, a maker of queens, the gentlest and most perfect editor, a beast with a blunt hammer of cruelty in his pen, an executioner of reputations. He could be gallant. He could be cruel. He could be a bright and shining leader. He could be a slobbering fat moron.

  As for his death, he had it coming.

  Don’t we all?

  I mean, if we’re living, our death is coming. That’s all I meant.

  I slept through it. To be utterly honest, I didn’t hear a thing.

  They had to positively haul me out in my velvet Snuggie, like the ones seen on TV? I have ten, specially made, that I take everywhere. I cannot bear to have anyone else’s sheets next to my body. You know that 80 percent of house dust is composed of human skin, don’t you?

  I slept through it. And I am not a sleeper.

  If Mildew’s little pudding hadn’t given me a pill during the party, when I collapsed with a severe migraine, I would have at least heard the details.

  She gave me a pill, and she gave me the room right next to theirs.

  I heard plenty of giggling going on when I was unpacking.

  Just like Mildew and me, when I was his little pudding!

  Oh yes, they all said that was how I got my first big contract, but the truth is, plenty of great publishers wanted The Wind Screamed Rosa! Yes, that was mine. I did write that.

  Of course I’ll sign one. For your grandmother?

  Well.

  Back then, Herman was in his prime. I was a mere child. I thought that together, we would build a great cathedral of novels. But when I dropped to number ten, he dropped me.

  That was when the sleep problems began.

  Insomnia? Please. It’s sleep drought. That’s what my psychiatrist says.

  It’s bad on the Upper West Side.

  Even with soundproofed walks, quadruple thick windows, my Soothy Snoozymaker turned to ocean (I cannot tolerate the not-at-all soothing sound of the real ocean) and the masks that Ramona sews for me every week with the softest Peruvian cotton, I’m lucky to get…three hours.

  In the country, of course, it’s worse.

  All those sinister sounds: deer positively clomping about outside, leaves bashing against the branches of trees, raccoons with those terrifying little hands, fish splashing, bugs scuttling, owls hooting…you may as well be on safari!

  It’s the brain, of course. Leonardo. Thomas Jefferson. Charlotte Brontë. The mind simply will not stop. The price of genius is, well, it’s exhaustion.

  I should never have come. But when Herman wrote to me, saying his fête would be flattened without my presence, that others were coming only to meet me, well, I agreed. After all, before we parted, he did sell The River Sobbed Violet! to the Doo-Wop Music Channel for an original movie.

  Well, yes, they do make their own movies.

  So I had the driver come to darkest Connecticut. I’d have one sip for old times and be gone by dawn. Little did I know that the “party” was really a “wedding.”

  And little did Little Miss Twenty-Seven Weeks at Number One know what she would wake up next to after her wedding night.

 
; A is for Ampersand: A Keyboard Mystery.

  This is what they take for literature today.

  The swollen, marbled red face.

  The protruding tongue and bulging eyes.

  The clutching of the throat, the gargled cries.

  That muffin paunch shaking and the obvious toupee askew, the pathetic little man he had become—doddering drooler, closet alcoholic, blurry little ferret-faced follower of fads.

  “Nothing lasts forever, darling!” he said.

  Indeed.

  How do I know about the mottled face? My dear, I invented the mansion mystery genre. Poison always leaves a cherry-red complexion.

  How do I know it was poison?

  I’m a good guesser, I guess. I have no idea at all.

  I slept through the whole thing.

  INT. PICKLE FACTORY. NEW YORK - MORNING

  Enter SARAH MLYNOWSKI and COURTNEY SHEINMEL. Remarkably short writers. They’re in their mid-thirties, but neither looks a day over twenty-one. Fine, twenty-five. Okay, twenty-nine. All right, all right: thirty-four. But really, that’s the ceiling.

  SARAH

  Excuse me! Excuse me! I’m ready to give my alibi! Who do I talk to?

  COURTNEY

  (pulling on Sarah’s arm)

  Calm down. You’re not speaking to ANYONE. We’re here for information gathering purposes ONLY.

  SARAH

  No, I want to talk to someone. I HAVE to talk to someone—to explain what happened. I know about this—I watch a lot of Law & Order. A LOT. The regular episodes, Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent. I even watched Law & Order: Trial By Jury and Law & Order: LA and no one watched those. The only one I haven’t watched is Law & Order: UK. I don’t know why, the wigs just really freak—

  COURTNEY

  (clapping a hand over Sarah’s mouth)

  Sarah, you’ve got to stop talking about Law & Order. In fact, you’ve got to stop talking about everything. I’m sure you watch a lot of courtroom TV, but I’m the one who went to law school and practiced law for SIX YEARS. I’ve been in actual courtrooms, and I’ve prepped dozens of clients. You know the first thing I always told them? Remain silent. Don’t say anything without an attorney present.

  SARAH

  (pulling Courtney’s hand away)

  But you’re an attorney, and you’re present.

  COURTNEY

  You know what they say—the attorney who represents himself has a fool for a client.

  SARAH

  Ooh, I once heard that on Law & Order! Okay, I get what you’re saying. Except the other thing on the show is the perps who don’t talk always look guilty. And then they go to jail. We could be sent to JAIL.

  COURTNEY

  Technically we’d be sent to prison. Jail is a short-term facility.

  SARAH

  So you think we’ll be going away for a long time?

  COURTNEY

  We won’t be sent anywhere if we keep our mouths shut.

  SARAH

  I just want to tell the truth, that we were writing in my apartment together.

  Enter ALYSSA SHEINMEL. She’s younger than the other two. And taller.

  ALYSSA

  I did my interview! Don’t you think this is the perfect “I’m innocent” outfit?

  (twirls)

  Don’t you think it makes me look so trustworthy? I told them I was with you, Shortney.

  COURTNEY

  Don’t call me that.

  SARAH

  Whoa, whoa whoa!!! You were not with Courtney! I was with Courtney! Omigod. I can’t breathe. Need air. Need air!

  COURTNEY

  Alyssa, now is not the time to make up stories. You were not with me.

  (Sarah is audibly hyperventilating)

  I was in Sarah’s living room, writing.

  (Sarah puts her head between her knees)

  She had Law & Order on in the background like always. You could have come over too. You were invited. You know it upsets me when I invite you to things and you don’t show up!

  ALYSSA

  I had a doggy emergency.

  COURTNEY

  You always pick Donald over me!

  ALYSSA

  I’m sorry, Shortney. I saw something that looked like a nail and thought he ate it. He was acting out of sorts—but since the vet didn’t see a nail on the X-ray, he probably just missed you.

  COURTNEY

  Oh, that’s so cute. Really?

  ALYSSA

  Really. You should’ve seen him. He was all—

  (mimes dog with paws up looking sad)

  —and sitting by the front door, like he was waiting for you.

  SARAH

  The Sheinmel sisters are throwing me under the bus! I’m going to pass out. I’m going to pass out and when I wake up I’ll be handcuffed to my hospital bed. It happened on Law & Order! And it was the polygamous husband who did it. It’s always the polygamous husband. And I don’t even have a polygamous husband. At least I think I don’t.

  (turns to Sheinmel sisters)

  Are either of you married to my husband? Are BOTH of you married to my husband?

  COURTNEY

  No, but if you’re in prison, maybe I would marry your husband. He’s a great guy, and I’d totally move into your apartment. It’s bigger than mine, and close to my sister.

  ALYSSA

  Omigod! We can double date!

  SARAH

  Yup, under the bus I go.

  ALYSSA

  No, no, I’ll just edit mine and say the three of us were together. Not a big deal. No need to freak out.

  SARAH

  (deep breath)

  Perfect.

  COURTNEY

  But that’s not true either, and that’s not even your biggest problem. They already have you on tape. This isn’t like a manuscript you hand in, and then get back to make changes once, twice, three times—

  SARAH

  Or four. If you want to really piss your editor off. Sorry Herman.

  COURTNEY

  (clamping hand over Sarah’s mouth again and glancing frantically around room)

  No apologizing to Herman. As I was saying, the problem is that your confession is already done.

  SARAH

  What about Miranda’s rights? I don’t totally understand who she is or why she has rights but on Law & Order she gets a lot of people out of jail.

  COURTNEY

  Miranda is a he, not a she.

  ALYSSA

  I don’t know why people do that to their children, naming a boy a name clearly meant for a girl.

  COURTNEY

  No, it was his last name. He was arrested and questioned for hours. Finally, he confessed to the crime. But that whole time, he’d never been advised of his right to an attorney or his right to remain silent. That’s why his conviction was overturned. Now it’s the law that when you’re arrested, you’re read the Miranda warnings.

  SARAH

  So it’s like his confession never happened. Great! Let’s do that!

  COURTNEY

  But we can’t. Alyssa wasn’t arrested. She showed up here completely of her own volition, just like us.

  ALYSSA

  So we have to steal back my confession. Okay, here’s how we’ll do it. Sarah, you go back there and steal it. Then we’ll destroy it and we’re in the clear.

  SARAH

  How do I steal back a confession?

  ALYSSA

  Easy. Grab the videotape with my name on it. I saw the video guy writing up a label: Sheinmel, A.

  SARAH

  But why me?

  COURTNEY

  Someone has to do it. And it’s too obvious if it’s me. She’s my sister.

  ALYSSA

  Exactly.

  SARAH

  Fine. I’ll go. I’ll be back in five.

  (zips up sweater and ties hood around her face)

  COURTNEY

  (waits for Sarah to leave the room, then takes out her phone and dials 911)

/>   I have a crime to report. Author Sarah Mlynowski is about to steal a videotape from the interviews in the Herman Mildew murder. Obviously the only reason she is stealing a videotape is because she’s trying to hide her own involvement in the murder. I’m an attorney and I’ve seen this kind of thing before. What? Where was I? I was with my sister. If you don’t believe me, just ask her. She’ll tell you. Thanks.

  (Sheinmel sisters high five and cackle)

  ALYSSA

  So Sarah’s going to jail?

  COURTNEY

  Not jail. She’s going to prison. The difference is—

  ALYSSA

  I know, I know.

  (her voice grows wistful)

  It’s a shame no one will ever see my interview though because this is the perfect alibi outfit. But anyway. Well played.

  COURTNEY

  (links arms with sister)

  I know. I saw it on an episode of Law & Order.

  You silly ol’ silly, I would be delighted to talk to you about poor Hermie’s ghastly demise. It simply wouldn’t look right if you didn’t approach all of sweet Hermie’s party guests, now would it? So—wink, wink—of course I’ll provide a statement. Anything to help you nail the onion-eyed slop-wallower who ripped out poor Hermie’s heart and shook it till it was goo, the way a mongrel would shake a child’s beloved doll. I can see it now—poor Hermie, flung hither and yon until his eyes popped out and his limbs flew off! Until his innards were scattered everywhere, like pig intestines flung willy-nilly across a concrete floor!

  Mr. Investigator, I ask you: Have you witnessed the mess a pig makes when it reaches the slaughterhouse? The frightful sleight of hand accomplished by the teams of maggots, swarming so relentlessly that one might swear the carcass had resurrected its foul self? The stench of bone soup, yellow as bile and so greasy that once touched, the slick of it stays on a person forever? The ubiquitous boar hair, too coarse to be pulverized by even the most relentless of hammer mills?