“Always count.”
The gaggle of detectives and policemen all stare at you in rapt attention.
Except one. He thinks he already knows everything. He whispers something to the junior detective seated next to him, but is shushed–the junior detective is at least a little cleverer than he.
At least clever enough to observe the obvious.
At least clever enough to notice you staring right at the pair of them.
Time for a pop quiz.
“How many floorboards were there?”
You decide your victim shall be Lawton. Stupid arrogant idiot.
“Lawton?”
He’s startled something terribly from his rendition of what must have been a terribly hilarious tale to the poor junior detective, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but there.
He spins around, his nose colliding painfully with the junior detective’s ear.
Quite comical–especially his round eyes. You didn’t know eyes could open that far.
Perhaps they can’t. Would explain the blood dripping from his eyelids.
At least you’re amused. Perhaps it’s for the best; maybe you won’t be quite so hard on poor Lawton now.
“How many floorboards between the carpet and the door?”
“How many–what?”
You do not respond.
Silence.
Well, not silence. There’s always so many sounds about. Air conditioners. People typing in the next room. Breathing.
Not so much breathing at the moment. They’re all holding their breath.
You wonder if you should keep them in suspense until they pass out. Might teach them a lesson.
You don’t.
“Thirteen. How many stuffed animals?”
A few more moments of quiet, then someone posits a guess that perhaps there weren’t any.
The others gain confidence. Of course not, they say. It was a boy’s room, they say. Then another argues that his nephew had stuffed animals, and another points out the nephew’s only six, not sixteen like the victim.
Then one hapless soul talks about his stuffed-animal-collecting uncle–”manly ones,” he says, but no-one believes.
The dunderheads always focus on the wrong thing.
Enough. “Thirteen.”
They all fall silent.
You continue your quiz: “And how many pencils in the pencil holder?”
No answer. Then, someone guesses: thirteen.
“Confirm. And how many lego pieces strewn on the floor?”
“Thirteen?”
“Doorknobs?”
You look at Lawton, who jumps to answer.
“Thirteen!”
He’s so, pathetically easy. You stare at him.
He tries again, this time with a little less arrogant excitement. “Three?”
You nod sharply. Entrance. Bathroom. Closet.
You look at them, waiting.
It’s all important. The thirteens, the threes, the fives, the seventeens. Even the thirteen thousand five hundred ninety-one grains of dust.
You wonder if that is a lot of dust. Or perhaps very little at all? Dust particles are so small, so maybe thirteen thousand wouldn’t add up to much at all.
Whatever. You’re just happy it’s a prime number.
You repeat:
“Always count.”