Sunday evening, a late message from the CVS Pharmacy after hours. Paraphrased:
"Your LAT and LIS are ready for pickup.
The. "
(generic form) Call 808-XXX-XXXX if you have questions.
What the “The.” ???
My mind races, it boggles, it vacillates. What indeed!
Two decades of Doper experience kick in. It’s clear as day. MURDER!!! The pharmacist, working late has been stabbed in the back and now lays slumped over his/her keyboard. Why? Jealousy, money, a three-way gone bad? What to do?
- Call 911, the SWAT will explosively penetrate the closed metal shutters. But that may disturb the crime scene obscuring valuable evidence.
- Go there myself and pound on the shutters possibly rousing the victim if not dead. It’s only two miles, the drug store itself is 24 hours, and I have a 30% off storewide coupon expiring that day.
- Call the number in the message. But that could have been altered by the killer who will trace it back to me. Why was the victims texting me? I’m a potential witness! Or, I’ll be ground zero in the police investigation. Why text me? Why the cryptic ‘The .’?
Obvious to Dopers; I’ll start a poll with, “NEED ANSWER FAST” in the narrative Let’s see, there’s a thread somewhere on how, another for testing … the adrenaline is fading … the camomile tea is kicking in … sleep overtakes me, the phone drops.
Monday morning. WAKE UP, SMITH. THE GAME IS AFOOT!
I scan the local news for - well, news. Shirley the co-workers have discovered the body by now; skeleton gleaming white in the relentless sun streaming in the pick-up window. The bleached bones picked clean of flesh by sea gulls, sand crabs, and feral chickens. The perp would have left the back door open for nature to run its course. Dastardly!
Nothing! NOTHING! Oh, the police are good. Not revealing anything to dissuade copycats or to trip up the murderer on details. I wait, the store will be a madhouse and I still have another week on my prescriptions.
This morning, Thursday, I approach the store for my refills, seems normal. Back at the pharmacy counter, undercover cops are dressed as pharmacists and counter personnel. Convincing but one person gives them away; a middle-aged man sitting on a folding chair by the vaccine screen, his disheveled appearance hiding a steely-eyed glare perusing the patrons. A hard-boiled, alcoholic, thrice divorced detective scanning for the suspect possibly returning to the scene of the crime. I’m nervous, do I blend in? Slippas (flip-flops, sandals to mainlanders), faded t-shirt commemorating some lost dream, ill-fitting shorts from Ross’s - yep, that’s me. Order filled, OH NO! A bright red border on the three foot long receipt. Have I been outed, marked as a suspect, or just at the end of the paper roll? I have to look cool, and there’s another 30% off coupon - SCORE!
Leaving the store, I drop a casual down-low shaka to the security guard, A barely perceptible nod and I’m out. Just in case, I take a roundabout route the two miles home including a fake cul-de-sac turn to check for a tail.
Updates as they occur.