commendations and uniform patches and old photographs and newspaper clippings. He had added a wall of bookshelves, and on these were all his cherished books, arranged alphabetically by author, and a healthy collection of movies. Most were on VHS videotape, but he had a growing number of DVDs, too. His kids brought him a lot of movies with the weekly food deliveries.
The one thing that Stanley Dowbrowski considered the real gem of his office, however, was his desktop computer. It was a brand-new tower model, and he’d bought it with all the bells and whistles. These included a lightning-fast processor, more memory than he could believe, a home-theater audio system, and a pair of twenty- four-inch LCD monitors.
Of the latter, he used one LCD panel for his main screen. The other held all the different screens of whatever he was working on-an Internet browser window, say, showing a police scanner website, another with his e-mail in-box, and so on. He had even started watching some of the DVDs on the computer.
Stanley Dowbrowski used his mouse to scroll back up the browser window that had caused him to look askance at the screen.
Since Betty’s passing, Dowbrowski had established a daily routine. Most of it was centered in this room and around the computer. It was something he knew Betty would have frowned upon had she still been alive. But she wasn’t there. And he had decided his life-at least what was left of it-was his to live in any way that he wanted. Or, considering his failing health, any way that he could manage.
And if the ME boys have to pull my cold body out of this office chair to tie on that toe tag, so be it.
Metaphorically speaking…
Every night around nine o’clock, Stanley Dowbrowski poured himself his usual nightcap of a double Buffalo Trace bourbon over three ice cubes. Sometimes, he might even slip and pour three shots. Then he would bring the cocktail into the office and make one last check of his e-mail. He also usually clicked on the website of his local newspaper to see what the forecast was for the next day’s weather. And he’d run the program that backed up the files on his computer’s internal hard drive to an external drive that he kept in his fireproof safe.
Then he would grab a book from the bookshelf-tonight he was excited about a new novel by a Florida cop named James O. Born-then take it and his bourbon down the hall to his bedroom. And there he’d climb in between the sheets and read till the nightcap kicked in.
He stared at the screen now, which showed the news story on the hospital shooting:
ARMED MAN MURDERS BURN VICTIM BEFORE FLEEING HOSPITAL, FIRING AT POLICE
While police remain mum on details of the murder, witnesses claim gunman fired shots at man who shouted “Police!” while chasing gunman from hospital.
He scrolled down to see if the story had been updated.
And he found that there was something new. It was a single-sentence paragraph at the end of the article:
Update (5:44 p.m.): According to the anonymous source inside the hospital, the patient who was shot to death was J. Warren Olde, Jr.
Then Dowbrowski scrolled down to the comments section. His comment was there, of course:
From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (2:56 p.m.):
I talked to an inside source, too, and was told that this was a hit job. Maybe not a professional one, but the burn victim (there?s more to that story that I cannot share) was targeted. So sad to see this happening in Philly. I?ll say it again: Shoot?em all and let the Good Lord sort?em out.
And below it there were five new postings, including one that seemed vaguely familiar:
From Death.Before.Dishonor (3:20 p.m.):
What about “Thou Shalt Not Steal”??
The only sad thing about what happened is the gun didn?t empty all of its bullets into that pendejo! Skipper deserved every damn bullet!
Recommend [0] Click Here to Report Abuse And he repeated to himself: “Something there’s not right.”
At three twenty, that article had not ID’d who got shot.
And it sure as hell hadn’t said “Skipper.”
I only know the guy’s name was Skipper Olde because Stephanie told me. And that he was the son of that McMansion builder.
He glanced over at the secondary LCD screen, where he could see the e-mail in-box. The list of e-mails included Stephanie’s.
Maybe this guy knew him, too?
But how did he find out?
And that screen name, “Death.Before.Dishonor,” rings a bell.
Where the hell else I have seen it?
He sipped his bourbon, then clicked around the newspaper site, trying to remember.
He saw a link in the box that read TODAY’S MOST READ ARTICLES.
In the box was: 2 DEAD AFTER METH LAB EXPLODES, BURNS PHILLY INN MOTEL.
He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
That’s it!
Death.Before.Dishonor had posted a comment at the end of that article that said, “Fuck you!” and something else.
It was listed right after mine.
He clicked on the link, then scrolled down. He found his comment and the one after it:
From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (9:50 a.m.):
Amen to both of you, Indy1 amp; WWBFD. I spent enough time walking the beat to see everything at least once. And nothing is as insidious as what these drugs do to families of every walk of life. I say, Shoot?em all and let the Good Lord sort?em out.
Recommend [4] Click Here to Report Abuse From HowYouseGuysDoin’ (9:22 a.m.):
And amen to that! I?ll provide the ammo! This nonsense has got to stop. The inmates are running the asylum!
Recommend [1] Click Here to Report Abuse He scrolled farther down the list. There were four other comments.
But not one from Death.Before.Dishonor.
And clearly not the one that ranted about “fuck you!”-oh, and said that drugs were no different from booze and hookers.
It’s gone now.
Huh. Guess someone reported it as abuse, and they pulled it off.
Stanley Dowbrowski quickly clicked back to the article on the Temple University Hospital murder.
He scrolled down and saw that the Death.Before.Dishonor comment was still there.
He clicked on the printer icon, and in a minute his color printer was spitting out sheets with the article and all of its comments on it.
Then he reached over and picked up the phone. He punched in a number.
Great.
Got his answering machine.
“Yo, Tony,” he said to the answering machine. “Stanley Dowbrowski here. Sorry to bother you this late at home. But I got something weird here. Not sure what. Or even if it’s really anything. But it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It’s about that shooting at the hospital. And the motel that blew up over on Frankford. That damn thing rattled the hell out of my windows this morning. Thought the world was coming to an end. Anyway, give me a call when you can. 555-1840. Later.”
Stanley Dowbrowski then picked up his James O. Born cop novel and wheezed his way down the hall to the bedroom.
