“You already said that,” I told him.
“Yeah, but I mean it. If my hands weren’t cuffed, I’d punch you. You’re ruining my day.”
“Like the Clucky kid.”
“Yes! Do you know what I do all day? I work the line at the button factory. Little tiny buttons roll past me, and I sort out the ones that are cracked or discolored. All day. Five days a week. Can you imagine? That’s my life. So all day long I’m thinking about a Double Clucky Burger. It’s my reward for getting through my hideous, boring, mind-rotting day. I would prefer drugs over the Clucky Burger, but I can’t afford drugs. I can only afford a shitty Clucky Burger. I get myself through the day, and I go to the drive-thru and order my food, and it comes out all wrong. How could anyone get a Double Clucky Burger wrong? It’s probably made by robots like me.”
“You tried to kill the kid working the window.”
“He deserved to die.”
“What was wrong with the burger?”
“No pickles. It’s supposed to have a layer of thinly sliced pickles between the special sauce and the minced onion.”
“That doesn’t seem like a good reason to kill someone.”
“It seems like a good reason to me. If you don’t do your job right, you die. You know what happens to me if I miss a cracked button?”
“No. What?”
“They take me to a back room and strip me naked and whip me.”
“Really?”
“No. But it feels like that.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“Maybe you should show me your nipples.”
Ten minutes later, I parked in the courthouse parking lot. I tried to help Strunk get out of the back seat, and he kicked at me.
“I’m not going,” Strunk said. “You can’t make me.”
I got back behind the wheel and drove to the cop shop back door. I requested assistance, and three cops dragged Strunk out of my car and into the building. I followed so I could get my body receipt.
I was waiting on the docket lieutenant, and Morelli joined me.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re white and sweating.”
“My arm is throbbing, and I have a horrible headache.”
“Did it occur to you that you should take a day off after getting shot?”
“Not until now.”
Morelli took the receipt from the lieutenant, put an arm around me, and steered me out of the building.
“Since the Buick is parked at the back door, I’m guessing your FTA wasn’t cooperative.”
“He has anger issues.”
Morelli opened the passenger’s side door for me. “I’ll drive,” he said. “I was leaving for the day, and you look like you need help.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back. He was right. I needed help.
* * *