The Last Policeman - By Ben H. Winters Page 0,2

piñata ourselves?”

I level Officer Michelson a stern and disapproving look. I hate that kind of casual fake tough-guy morbidity, “meat wagon” and “piñata” and all the rest of it, and Ritchie Michelson knows that I hate it, which is exactly why he’s goading me right now. He’s been waiting at the door of the men’s room, theoretically guarding the crime scene, eating an Egg McMuffin out of its yellow cellophane wrapper, pale grease dripping down the front of his uniform shirt.

“Come on, Michelson. A man is dead.”

“Sorry, Stretch.”

I’m not crazy about the nickname, either, and Ritchie knows that also.

“Someone from Dr. Fenton’s office should be here within the hour,” I say, and Michelson nods, burps into his fist.

“You’re going to turn this over to Fenton’s office, huh?” He balls up his breakfast-sandwich wrapper, chucks it into the trash. “I thought she wasn’t doing suicides anymore.”

“It’s at the discretion of the detective,” I say, “and in this case, I think an autopsy is warranted.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t really care. Trish McConnell, meanwhile, is doing her job. She’s on the far side of the restaurant, a short and vigorous woman with a black ponytail jutting out from under her patrolman’s cap. She’s got a knot of teenagers cornered by the soda fountain. Taking statements. Notebook out, pencil flying, anticipating and fulfilling her supervising investigator’s instructions. Officer McConnell, I like.

“You know, though,” Michelson is saying, talking just to talk, just getting my goat, “headquarters says we’re supposed to fold up the tent pretty quick on these.”

“I know that.”

“Community stability and continuity, that whole drill.”

“Yes.”

“Plus, the owner’s ready to flip, with his bathroom being closed.”

I follow Michelson’s gaze to the counter and the red-faced proprietor of the McDonald’s, who stares back at us, his unyielding gaze made mildly ridiculous by the bright yellow shirt and ketchup-colored vest. Every minute of police presence is a minute of lost profit, and you can just tell the guy would be over here with a finger in my face if he wanted to risk an arrest on Title XVI. Next to the manager is a gangly adolescent boy, his thick mullet fringing a counterman’s visor, smirking back and forth between his disgruntled boss and the pair of policemen, unsure who’s more deserving of his contempt.

“He’ll be fine,” I tell Michelson. “If this were last year, the whole scene of crime would be shut down for six to twelve hours, and not just the men’s john, either.”

Michelson shrugs. “New times.”

I scowl and turn my back on the owner. Let him stew. It’s not even a real McDonald’s. There are no more real McDonald’s. The company folded in August of last year, ninety-four percent of its value having evaporated in three weeks of market panic, leaving behind hundreds of thousands of brightly colored empty storefronts. Many of these, like the one we’re now standing in, on Concord’s Main Street, have subsequently been transformed into pirate restaurants: owned and operated by enterprising locals like my new best friend over there, doing a bustling business in comfort food and no need to sweat the franchise fee.

There are no more real 7-Elevens, either, and no more real Dunkin’ Donuts. There are still real Paneras, but the couple who owns the chain have undergone a meaningful spiritual experience and restaffed most of the restaurants with coreligionists, so it’s not worth going in there unless you want to hear the Good News.

I beckon McConnell over, let her and Michelson know we’re going to be investigating this as a suspicious death, try to ignore the sarcastic lift of Ritchie’s eyebrows. McConnell, for her part, nods gravely and flips her notebook to a fresh page. I give the crime-scene officers their marching orders: McConnell is to finish collecting statements, then go find and inform the victim’s family. Michelson is to stay here by the door, guarding the scene until someone from Fenton’s office arrives to collect the corpse.

“You got it,” says McConnell, flipping closed her notebook.

“Beats working,” says Michelson.

“Come on, Ritchie,” I say. “A man is dead.”

“Yeah, Stretch,” he says. “You said that already.”

I salute my fellow officers, nod goodbye, and then I stop short, one hand on the handle of the parking-lot-side door of the McDonald’s, because there’s a woman walking anxiously this way through the parking lot, wearing a red winter hat but no coat, no umbrella against the steady drifts of snow, like she just ran out of somewhere to get here, thin work shoes slipping on the slush of the parking lot. Then she