Blindside

locker room!”
    Savich said when that scream died away, “I played football.”
    “Well, yeah, I can tell by looking at you. I’ll just bet you had girls hanging off your biceps, didn’t you, you brainless jock?”
    That wasn’t very nice of him to say, Savich was thinking, but then Troy Ward had a microphone in front of his mouth and he was screaming, “Go, you macho jock jerks! Run!” He yelled in Savich’s face, “It’s a touchdown! You see that, a touchdown!”
    Savich said, “You never met Mr. Gifford Fowler or Leslie Fowler, his wife?”
    Now Savich wanted to lie down on this big soft sofa and just listen to the soft rain falling against the front windows of Troy Ward’s very nice house in an excellent area ofOxford, Maryland. “Nope, I already told the police I’d never heard of them. I don’t think my wife, Bernie, knew Leslie Fowler either, never mentioned her name or anything, not that Bernie and I ever talked about other women all that much. She wasn’t worried about me playing around on her, said I was a really bad liar and she’d know.” He paused, then tears oozed out of his eyes, falling into the deep creases on his double chin. “I want you to catch the maniac who killed Bernie!” Then he threw back his head and yelled to the ceiling, “I want to be a jock asshole!”
    Troy Ward was suddenly standing over him, his hand extended. “Do you want a rice cake? I’m trying to lose some weight, gotta get back into shape, you know, because, who knows, the Ravens might make the playoffs and I’ll be all front and center with the players. I may be doing some locker room interviews with the guys.” But he wasn’t holding a rice cake out to Savich, it was a huge Krispy Kreme the size of an inner-tube swing. Savich backed away from the doughnut and Troy Ward, that officious little sod of an overweight sports announcer, blurred into the tall gaunt features of Gifford Fowler, the car dealer, who was talking right in his face. “You want to buy one of my Chevys? I’ve been selling Chevys right here for the last twenty-two years! I’m solid, they’re solid. Like a Rock! Hey? Just like the commercial. Whatcha think, Agent Savich?”
    “Did you kill your wife, Mr. Fowler?”
    “Nah, I sell cars, I don’t kill wives. You divorce wives, not kill them. I divorced two before Leslie got herself whacked. Cops are stupid, but the fact is it’s just not worth the risk. I just know that if I’d knocked off Leslie they’d get me and then I’d only have eighteen good years left before they toasted me in the gas chamber. Whatcha think, Agent Savich?”
    “It’s a lethal injection now, Mr. Fowler. Sometimes it’seven longer than eighteen years. That’s only the average. Did you love your wife?”
    “Nah, she wasn’t a Mercedes anymore, looked more like a real old Chevy Impala. She used to be hot pink, then got too many miles and turned a dirty gray, ready for the junk pile. Glad we didn’t have any kids with me and her as parents—they’d be stealing cars off my lot, the little bastards.”
    “Do you and Troy Ward, that famous Ravens announcer, ever bowl together?”
    “Oh yeah, I heard about his bowling—always leaves splits and someone, it was his wife I hear, always had to come in and clean them up.” He laughed and laughed, slapping his knees. “Boy, is he fat, or what? None of the players or any of the coaching staff like him. He’s gross, you know? Not like me. Want to see my abs?”
    “That’s all right, Mr. Fowler, leave your shirt on, but those cuff links, now, they really don’t go with that shirt.”
    “Old junk-heap Leslie gave them to me. I’m wearing them to honor her—one more time, I figure she was worth it. Then I’ll flush ’em down. Hey, Agent Savich, you sure you don’t want to test-drive a Silverado? Cops like Silverados because they got that fancy coolant loss protection. It would fit your image, all hard muscle, really hot for the girls. Hey, let me show you my hard muscles.” As he unzipped his dark gray wool slacks he softly sang “When You Wish Upon a Star.”
    Voices, Savich heard voices, and this time they were close and he recognized them and could even make sense of them. It was Dr. Able.
    “In deference to your wife, Agent Savich, I’m closing your skin real pretty so she’ll think your scar’s sexy.”
    His brain wasn’t floating anymore, it was hovering, and things made sense now, more or less. He said, “Sherlock thinks everything