Mr. Murder

right now.
        But everything wasn't all right. Nothing had been explained or resolved. As far as he knew, their trouble was just beginning. … my Paige… my Charlotte, my Emily…
        At last Lowbock looked at Marty. In a flat tone of voice that was damning precisely because of its complete lack of interpretable inflection, the detective said, "Quite a story."
        "I know it sounds crazy." Marty stifled the urge to assure Lowbock that he had not exaggerated the degree of resemblance between himself and the look-alike or any other aspect of his account. He had told the truth.
        He was not required to apologize for the fact that the truth, in this instance, was as astounding as any fantasy.
        "And you say you don't have a twin brother?" Lowbock asked.
        "No, sir."
        "No brother at all?"
        "I'm an only child."
        "Half brother?"
        "My parents were married when they were eighteen. Neither of them was ever married to anyone else. I assure you, Lieutenant, there's no easy explanation for this guy."
        "Well, of course, no other marriages would've been necessary for you to have a half brother… or a full brother, for that matter," Lowbock said, meeting Marty's eyes so directly that to look away from him would have been an admission of something.
        As Marty digested the detective's statement, Paige squeezed his hand under the table, an admonition not to let Lowbock rattle him.
        He tried to tell himself that the detective was only stating a fact, which he was, but it would have been decent to look at the notebook or at the window when making such implications.
        Replying almost as stiffly as he was holding his head, Marty said, "Let me see… I guess I have three choices then. Either my father knocked up my mother before they were married, and they put this full brother-this bastard brother-up for adoption. Or after my folks were married, Dad screwed around with some other woman, and she gave birth to my half brother. Or my mother got pregnant by some other guy, either before or after she married my father, and that whole pregnancy is a deep, dark family secret."
        Maintaining eye contact, Lowbock said, "I'm sorry if I offended you, Mr.
        Stillwater."
        "I'm sorry you did, too."
        "Aren't you being a little sensitive about this?"
        "Am I?" Marty asked sharply, though he wondered if in fact he was over-reacting.
        "Some couples do have a first child before they're ready to make that commitment," the detective said, "and they often put it up for adoption."
        "Not my folks."
        "Do you know that for a fact?"
        "I know them."
        "Maybe you should ask them."
        "Maybe I will."
        "When?"
        "I'll think about it."
        A smile, as faint and brief as the passing shadow of a bird in flight, crossed Lowbock's face.
        Marty was sure he saw sarcasm in that smile. But, for the life of him, he couldn't understand why the detective would regard him as anything less than an innocent victim.
        Lowbock looked down at his notes, letting the silence build for a while.
        Then he said, "If this look-alike isn't related to you, brother or half brother, then do you have any idea how to explain such a remarkable resemblance?"
        Marty started to shake his head, winced as pain shot through his neck.
        "No. No idea at all."
        Paige said, "You want some aspirin?"
        "Had some Anacin," Marty said. "I'll be okay."
        Meeting Marty's eyes again, Lowbock said, "I just thought you might have a theory."
        "No. Sorry."
        "You being a writer and all."
        Marty didn't get the detective's meaning. "Excuse me?"
        "You use your imagination every day, you earn a living with it."
        "So?"
        "So I thought maybe you'd figure out this little mystery if you put your mind to it."
        "I'm no detective. I'm clever enough at constructing mysteries, but I don't unravel them."
        "On television," Lowbock said, "the mystery writer any amateur detective, for that matter-is always smarter than the cops."
        "It's not that way in real life," Marty said.
        Lowbock let a few seconds of silence drift past, doodling on the bottom of a page of his notes, before he replied, "No, it's not."
        "I don't confuse fantasy and reality," Marty said a little too harshly.
        "I wouldn't