The Chrononauts
Chapter 3: Alibis

The next morning, Walter showed up early. He talked to Matt. “We have to get done early today. I am taking Brady and his daughter to the Red Lobster at seven.”

Brady looked up from his computer screen and whispered to Grogan, “I think I love this guy.” Harvard and Matt checked Walter’s alibi. It was solid as a rock, which disappointed Harvard.

Matt grinned. “You know, as nutty as it sounds, I am beginning to think Walter is not what he seems to be.”

Harvard looked at him. “You mean a vampire?”

Matt laughed. “No. Look at his shoes. They are hand stitched. He also has nothing that is plastic: no driver’s license, no comb or credit cards.”

Harvard was frustrated. “Facts, facts, facts, are all that matters in a case. Maybe the idiot is a tree hugger or something. There are laws of physics. People can’t just jump back and forth in time even to suck blood.”

Matt nodded. “Maybe... but I wonder. At MIT we don’t throw around words like ‘impossible’ and ‘can’t’ so easily.” He kept looking at the wallet and bag of goodies he got from Mr. Wonderful. “I have a friend who is an antique dealer. He specializes in coins, stamps and autographs. I want to see what he thinks about this stuff. He was my roommate during my freshman year.”

Harvard laughed. “Of course he was. Well, we have nothing, so let’s take a ride.”

Matt laughed. “Cheer up, Harvard. You’re just pissed that Walter is a chess genius.”

Harvard cringed. “The only thing you’re going to prove is that you are as crazy as he is. Well let’s go, then we can get some food; I’m starving.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the antique store. The large black and gold sign read, “Autographs, Coins and Stamps Bought, Sold, Authenticated.” A little bell jingled when they entered.

Harvard laughed. “Isn’t that nice? A little bell.” Matt shook his pal Bob’s hand. He was six-foot one with a great tan and black horn-rimmed glasses. They chatted with each other in Russian. Harvard looked totally bored.

Bob looked over at Harvard. He spoke in Russian. “Who is the dink?”

Matt chuckled. “That is Detective Harvard. Excuse him, he graduated from Harvard. We call him Harvard to his face. He doesn’t realize it is an insult.”

“Hello I’m Bob.” He held his hand out. Harvard ignored it. He laughed. “Yup, he’s a typical Harvard self-important dickhead.”

Matt laughed. “Ignore him, Bob. He’s just mad because he got slaughtered at chess by a possible extraterrestrial.” He handed Bob the wallet and bag.

Bob asked, “So, where did you get them?” He ditched his glasses and blushed. “I only wear them to make the customers feel more comfortable in my analysis of their items.”

Harvard chuckled, “We got them from the possible murderer of Senator Abel.”

Matt smiled. “That would be the probable alien that kicked his Ivy League ass at chess.”

Bob laughed. “I would like to meet that person and shake his hand.” He pushed the coins apart with tweezers and looked at them under a microscope. He asked, “Is he a collector?”

Matt nodded. “He might be. He says he is. Why do you ask?”

Bob shook his head. “These are at least Mint State sixty-six. They look like they were coined yesterday. Together they are worth about five thousand dollars. The Spanish reale is only worth a hundred or so. The twenty one thousand dollar bills with consecutive serial numbers in pristine condition: seventy to ninety thousand dollars. The gold doubloons are worth twenty thousand dollars each, since they are a particularly rare year.”

Bob pulled a packet out of the wallet and opened it. It was old postage stamps. “Holy shit, Batman! It is a Scott number two, block of four in gem condition. I have never seen a block before. They are worth one to two hundred thousand dollars, more on a good day.”

The last thing in the wallet was the Lincoln autograph piece. Bob looked at it for ten minutes and called up samples on his laptop. He nodded. “Yup, the signature is authentic.”

Harvard laughed. “You moron, it was written with a ballpoint pen. Those weren’t even invented until after World War One.”

Aggravated, Bob replied, “That is not my problem. That is your problem. You’re the detective; you figure out. This was written by Lincoln’s hand. There is no doubt about it. Is any of this stuff for sale?”

That evening, Brady and his wife arrived at the Red Lobster. Walter had told him he could bring “his daughter” along. The owner brought them to Walter’s favorite table. They were seated with much fanfare and had an excellent view of the setting sun.

Mrs. Brady was a knockout in a tight red dress and that was not lost on any of the men in the restaurant... or their wives. Walter came in a couple minutes later in a nineteenth-century hand-stitched suit. He kissed Mrs. Brady’s hand. Brady smiled and looked amused. “My wife was a history major. She has three brothers so she is a tomboy. She won a silver medal in the Olympics for shooting.”

Mrs. Brady was six feet tall with blonde hair. She wore her favorite perfume, Evening in Paris, that night. She smiled. “My friends call me Mrs. B.”

Mr. Wonderful smiled. “I am called Walter to my face.”

Brady asked, “Why do we have such great service?”

Walter explained, “Well, the mayor pays for the meal, but I leave the tips.”

Antonio was standing there, smiling. “See what Walter tipped me with last week?” He proudly held out a chain with a gold coin on it.

Mrs. B. looked at it curiously. “My God, that is a gold doubloon. It is pirate treasure.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Walter laughed. “Well, not quite... but high marks for the identification, Mrs. B.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out another and slid it across the table to her. “Here, you can have one if you like it. I have a lot more.”

Brady thought of telling his wife to give it back but came to his senses in time. She was already planning to put it in a necklace. The meal went well and everyone was stuffed. Brady was more mystified than ever. They thanked Walter for the coin and watched him leave.

Walter chuckled over his shoulder that he would see Brady in the morning, provided no one succeeded in killing him.

Mrs. B. asked, “Why? Is he in danger?”

Brady sighed. “Yes, I am afraid he is. He is a witness to a group of grisly murders.”

She asked, “Doesn’t he need protection?”

Brady watched him walk out the door. “I am beginning to wonder who really needs the protection.”

Mrs. B. laughed. “Well, he certainly doesn’t seem worried about it.”

Brady replied, “He told me death is a dear old friend. He said when we are ready to die, we are like kids fighting, screaming to stay alive, while being dragged to Disneyworld.”

Brady opened the door for his wife. She walked through the parking lot on his arm. “Hey, isn’t that Harvard’s Corvette?”

Brady shrugged. “It looks like it. He is probably waiting for his uncle so he can mooch a free meal. He is a little short of cash this week.”

Walter strolled down the deserted road, twirling his silver cane and whistling. The silver cane was given to him by a Civil War general named Washburn from Massachusetts for saving the general’s life. He glanced at the reflection on his watch and saw a black Caddie following him. He chuckled and glanced around. The street was deserted.

The driver looked shocked. “Where the hell did he go?

His wingman laughed. “He is fifty yards in front of you, moron.”

The driver laughed nervously. “How did the old fart get so far down the road so fast?” Walter was leaning against the only working light on the street with his legs crossed, waiting for them to catch up.

He started to stroll towards the car and smirked. “Obviously you ladies are looking for the Pink Asparagus gay night club. Okay, let’s see, you go down to Fifth Street and...” The men looked at each other and slowly got out of the car. Walter laughed. “I thought all you Spanish guys had brightly colored cars. Oh, I get it. You gay guys have good taste. No?” He thought a moment. “I know. I know. You stole the car from the gay club’s parking lot, right?”

The leader laughed. “That was very funny, asshole. Maybe they will put that on your tombstone, homey.”

Walter cringed. “Can you call me something besides asshole, please?”

The leader chuckled. “Sure, dude. It is time to die, Dracula.” They all opened up on Walter and he fell to the ground in a heap. They took a bunch of pictures and a thumb print. They headed back to Papa Doc’s to party.

Harvard had watched the muzzle flashes from two streets over. He murmured to himself. “Bye bye, you freaking lunatic.” He adjusted his Crimson tie and tooled down the highway to his condo. Harvard got a good night’s sleep for the first time in a week.

Walter’s body slumped against a lonely elm tree for several minutes. A white owl flew down to his shoulder and hooted. She flew off and Walter got up and dusted himself off. “These guys are slow learners, Snowflake.” He took out a mouse from a little paper bag and handed it to the grateful owl. She flew back to a tree branch and gobbled it down quickly.

The men in the Caddie drove back to the house and six happy men went inside to party. The leader accepted a high-five from his cohorts. “It was the easiest kill ever. He didn’t even beg for his life; the old fart just smiled at us.” The leader threw the pictures on the table and headed to a bedroom with a couple drunken babes. Sammy the Snake thought it was a little too easy and walked over to look at the pictures.

Sammy’s eyes widened and he yelled, “What the hell are these?”

Papa Doc picked them up. “Go get those assholes.”

There were six pictures. Each picture showed one of the killers wearing a skirt in the gay bar, with a cigarette in his mouth and with his arms around Detective Harvard, who was wearing only a killer Harvard Crimson red thong. On the back of each picture was typed “Property of the Daily Tribune”.

Harvard arrived at the precinct early as usual. Everyone was in a good mood; well, so was he. But there was definitely too much laughter for this time of day. There’s not enough discipline in here, he thought.

Everyone got a little too quiet when he turned on his laptop. Hey. There was something from the Tribune... Good, they must want him for another interview; probably about the murder of Senator Abel. Harvard thought he looked taller on television. He opened the attachment.

His face turned red. “What the hell is this?” The whole squad room roared with laughter. Brady, Matt, and Grogan strolled in.

Brady smiled. “What is so funny?”

Bomb Squad Dave had his black horn-rimmed glasses off and was in tears from laughing. “You better ask Harvard. Hey, Matt, you think you could get Harvard to autograph these for me?” The three detectives looked through all the pictures at Grogan’s desk near the doughnuts.

Matt noticed all the men worked for Papa Doc. He printed out hard copies. “Just how do you know all these men, Harvard? They are all contract killers for Papa Doc.”

Harvard scoffed. “Well, obviously they were all photoshopped, you moron.”

Grogan shook his head. “I don’t know...that thong is almost Harvard crimson.” It suddenly became very quiet as Captain Brown came through the door.

He quipped, “It’s nice to see so many happy faces.”

A chorus of voices droned. “Good morning, Captain.” They all tried to look busy and waited for the bomb to drop on Harvard. They didn’t have to wait long.

There was a loud laugh and the captain yelled, “Harvard, get your pink thong ass in here right now!” Everyone hooted, whistled, and clapped as he walked, face beet red, into the captain’s office.

The six-foot six captain was intimidating, even sitting down. He frowned. “I got an anonymous call at three in the morning that one of my detectives was cavorting with criminal elements in a downtown bar. Do you have any idea who they were talking about? And while we are at it, did you really have to post you and your friends on the Internet, you idiot? I am surprised your dear uncle hasn’t had you shot yet.”

Harvard whined in his defense. “I didn’t post those pictures. One of your brown-nosing detectives is jealous of my superior skills and is trying to make me look bad. One of them probably photoshopped the pictures...probably that space shot, Dave, with his perverted sense of humor.”

Harvard sighed. “If I was a lieutenant like my uncle says I should be we would not be these lapses of leadership. They would not be able to harass us.”

The captain looked up. “Who exactly do you mean by us?”

Harvard chuckled. “Well, obviously, you and I. We are their superiors, and when I make lieutenant...”

The captain turned bright red. “You are an idiot, Harvard. Everyone scored higher than you did on the lieutenant’s test. You will get promoted when I am dead or hell freezes over. Now get your pink thong ass out of my office.”

Walter walked through the door and Harvard’s beet-red face turned instantly white. Walter looked bewildered and asked what was going on. “Are you guys having a party or something?”

Brady showed him the pictures. Walter looked at them with a serious face. “I didn’t know Harvard liked men. Is Matt gay, too?” That got a few snickers. “I saw the morgue’s truck backing in downstairs with a bunch of bodies. Some of them look like Harvard’s gay little friends. The driver said they found them floating by Fisherman’s Wharf.” All the detectives went downstairs to investigate except for Harvard.

Walter laughed. “Look Harvard, I am not gay, so stop staring at me.”

Harvard stuttered. “What are you doing here?”

Walter laughed. “I am here to testify against your gay little friends. Aren’t you going to go downstairs and check on your pals?”

Harvard said, “They are not my little friends.”

Walter baited him again. “That must have been a hell of a party. Did you get lucky?” Harvard just grunted and walked downstairs. Walter shook his head and chuckled.

The captain yelled out of his office. “Harvard, come in here please.” No one answered and he came out of his office into the squad room. “Where the hell is everyone?”

Walter shrugged, “They all went downstairs to check out all of Harvard’s dead party friends that were fished out of Fisherman’s Wharf this morning.

The captain sighed. “Tell the little prick that I want to see him when he gets back.” He took a couple steps back out.

Walter saw him and nodded. “I’ll be gentle.” Brady came back first. He threw the pictures on his desk. All had check marks in the corner.

Walter chuckled. “It must have been a better party than I thought.”

Shaken, Harvard came back in. “Who the hell are you?”

Walter sipped his Coke. “I am just a guy that witnessed some murders. By the way, the captain wants to see you.”

A defensive Harvard asked, “Well, why does he want to see me?”

Walter laughed. “How would I know? He didn’t send me a copy of the memo.”

The captain closed the door and slid back into his chair. “You still think your fellow detectives are screwing with you?” Harvard, with a set jaw, said, “No, Captain it is that nut case, Walter.”

Captain Brown got mad. “That nut case as you call him is our only witness to the murders, and by some miracle he is still alive. I’m sure he has better things to do than photoshopping pictures of you for laughs.” He stood up. “I expect you to show him some respect. He is risking his life for us. Give him some slack. I called you in to tell you I am having you check people for weapons at the trial. It came from the top; believe me, it wasn’t my idea. That’s all, Detective Harvard.”

Walter watched Harvard come out of the office. He chuckled to himself. Brady saw him and elbowed Grogan. They watched Walter, expecting some trouble.

Walter spoke softly to Harvard. “I would like to offer my condolences for the terrible loss of your ah...friends.” Brady and Grogan smirked. “They all looked like a bunch of um...fun guys.” Walter was standing near the window with his legs crossed, trying not to smile. “Hey, some of my best friends are gay. Do you need a hug?”

That did it. Harvard tried to remain calm. “Thank you, but they were not my friends, Walter.”

Walter sighed. “Hey, don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. A lot of people are gay, Harvard...well, maybe not a lot of police officers. I am sure they would all respect you when you decide to came out of the closet, so to speak.”

All the detectives listened to Walter bait Harvard but pretended to be working. “I repeat: I am not gay.”

Walter was quick and, with a straight face, he conceded, “Okay. Okay, bisexual.” Rattled, Harvard remained silent but started tapping his pencil.

Matt chuckled. “Settle down, Harvard, we are due in court in less than hour.” Matt tried valiantly not to smile.

The captain came out of his office. “Court is cancelled for today due to a bomb threat. He checked the squad room for doughnuts, found none, and returned to his office.

Walter asked, “So, do you think I should be worried, Harvard?”

Harvard said, “How should I know that?”

Walter chuckled, “Well, all the dead gay hit men were your friends.”

Harvard stammered, “I told you, those pictures are not real.” Walter looked confused. “They must be real, or the Tribune wouldn’t have stamped them...or published them on the front page of today’s paper.” He tossed the paper to Harvard.

Shocked, Harvard looked at it and yelled, “I tell you, I was home in bed early last night!” His pencil tapped faster.

Walter interrogated him. “Well, can one of your boyfriends verify that?” Walter paused. “Hey, maybe you could make a thong commercial. If I weren’t straight, you would look pretty good to me.”

Grogan was in tears. “This guy is better than Leno.”

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