chapter forty-eight

“Know what?” George asked. “I just had a thought.”

“Good for you, Georgie.”

We had parked as far up the block as we dared and were examining the trim house, where lights were on in the living room and kitchen. Ian Zimmerman owned this small ranch home in that blandest of all Metro Area suburbs, Little Canada.

Another thing the movies got wrong: serial killers tended to live in respectable homes in the suburbs, not farms o’death (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre) or houses with their own cavernous, crumbling basements and enormous dry wells, perfect for hunting, killing, and storing victims to be skinned (The Silence of the Lambs). I’d never once fake-arrested a killer who lived in an abandoned tract home built on an ancient cemetery

(“You left the bodies and you only moved the headstones!”)

or found so much as a severed finger in an amusement park. Heck, most of the time I fake-arrested bad guys in broad daylight. If we’d been a little quicker with Zimmerman, or if Paul hadn’t gone on his “setting up a pro for murder to save other pros” spree, we’d be trying to fake-arrest this guy in the sunshine.

“Your thought?” I prompted. No cars in the driveway, but lights on inside. No second floor. No basement windows … this might not be fatal.

“If I’m not a real cop, I’m not playing by real-cop rules.”

“Agreed. That’s why we’re sitting here without backup. Also so I can help Shiro rebel against her chosen mother figure.”

“Yeah, boring. I’m over Michaela’s sexy treachery now. So I was thinking, if Zimmerman doesn’t kill us, or me at least, I’ll probably kill him.”

I groaned. “You can’t kill him.” Unless it was self-defense, but it was never good to remind George of that loophole.

“No, I can … look!” He showed me the paper with the copy of Zimmerman’s driver’s license. “Five-six, one-fifty. Heck, you could probably take him.”

“No, George, you can’t.”

That stopped him short. “Can’t as in I’m morally opposed, can’t as in I don’t know how, can’t as in the guilt will keep me up at night, can’t as in I’m worried I’ll get in trouble … what?”

“Um, can’t because we’re the good guys.”

“Oh!” George’s expression cleared with understanding. “Shouldn’t. That’s what you meant. Can’t is … that’s a whole other thing.”

“I’m terrified of you sometimes, Black George,” I admitted.

“Thanks.” He seemed pleased. And I was surprised I was surprised. “I like ‘Black George’! Makes me sound like a pirate.”

“You stole that line from The Losers.” It was George’s favorite graphic novel and movie.

“Yep.”

We both took another minute to look at the house. We’d driven around the block a few times; a lovely, quiet little burb was Little Canada. A quiet night for Sussudio’s neighbors.

“What do we do?” he whispered, which was odd because unless Sue was hiding under the car, he couldn’t hear us. Maybe not even then. “Just march in there and arrest him?”

“We can’t!” I hissed back. “We don’t have lawful authority. We’re not FBI agents; we’re private investigators.”

“So, what? Citizen’s arrest?”

“Do you know how to make one?”

“Shit, no. I was happy with the lie about us being Feebs. Wait, I’ll look it up.” He jabbed at his phone. “C’mon, Wikipedia…”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Shut up … ah! Okay, citizen’s arrest. Practice dates back to medieval Britain … ancient sheriffs encouraged citizens to arrest bad guys…”

“Something that will help us in this century, please?”

“Shut up. I hate you—okay, here it is … okay, you can do a citizen’s arrest in Australia … and New South Wales … and Ireland … India…”

“Something that will help us in this country, please?”

“I will slice off your face, you nagging skank!” Awww. It was our first whisper-scream fight. “Oh, here it is, the United States. Hmm, any state can do it except North Carolina. Remind me to stay the fuck out of North—”

“We live in Minnesota! We want to arrest a serial killer in Minnesota! Find out what we need to do in Minnesota or I’ll slice your face off, you whiny selfish sexually harassing egotistical shortsighted unscrupulous shithead!”

“Whoa! Say it, don’t spr— Here it is! We can do a citizen’s arrest if we think a felony has been committed, and if we’ve got reason to believe the person we’re arresting committed it. Well, duh. But that’ll work. Ooh, and listen! In Minnesota a private citizen can not only arrest someone, we don’t have to tell the cops … we can even bring in the suspect ourselves. Yay, Minnesota!”

I sagged with relief. “Then let’s get to it. Death awaits. Or glory. Well, not glory, because the cops will get the win. I bet the FBI will wish BOFFO was real if we get this guy.”

“Yeah, hold on to that dream. What do you think? Take the back? And no, that’s not a sexual euphemism.”

“Sometimes it must be great having such a one-track mind.” I thought about it. Small house, and Zimmerman was probably alone. We could kick in the back door and draw down on him. We could knock on the front door and when he answered, surge inside. We could split up: while I played helpless female and knocked helplessly at the front door and tried to engage Zimmerman in conversation while looking helpless, George could come in from the back. That could be bad for me, but it gave George the best chance of success or, barring that, survival.

I decided to give him two gifts: “You can go up the back.”

“Ooh!”

“What if it’s not him?”

“You mean what if he’s out trolling suicide groups and someone else is here watering his plants or whatever?”

“Right. We could tip him off.”

“He’s retarded,” George reminded me, “or he wants to be caught.”

“Stop saying retar—”

“If it’s the word you don’t want me to say, to wit, retarded, then he’ll be too retarded to worry. And if he wants to be caught, he won’t give a shit.”

“There are flaws in your logic, but damned if I can find them. Shall we?”

“We shall!”

We crept from the car and snuck up to the yard like kids past curfew. Or so I supposed; I didn’t have any real experience with that, but it seemed right. We were about thirty feet from the front door, and I started to go to the right so George could swing around the back.

“Luck,” I whispered.

“It didn’t suck all the time we were fake partners for the fake FBI.”

“We were never fake partners,” I said, genuinely touched. “Be safe. As safe as you can given that we’ve decided to do this reckless thing.”

“Try not to get your stupid ass killed, you worthless twat.”

I knuckled away a tear and started up Zimmerman’s sidewalk, making no further effort to be quiet or stealthy. I wanted all his attention on me. Hopefully while he was shooting me in the face, George would get the drop on him.

(What if you live through this and emerge triumphant?)

Now that was retarded.