“I’m sure it was just an accident,” Jacob said. “Let’s wait for the Detective… What was his name again?”
“Talbert,” Gregson said.
“Yes—we don’t even know that Patrick was murdered.”
“What do you think happened to him, then?” Chad demanded.
“A golf ball could’ve knocked him in the head and killed ’em.”
“I see, and how do you explain the gaping hole in his brain and the blood on the 5-iron?”
“We just won’t know what happened until we get an autopsy,” Gregson said.
“Have you called on it?” Candy asked.
“That’s next on my to-do list, thank you.” Gregson dialed Information. “Get me the medical examiner.”
“This is Doctor Graves.”
“I’ve got a dead body for you. It’s on hole number 2. We need to know the cause of death.”
“Has the body been moved?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about the forensic guys?”
“You’ll be the first one on the scene, so bring somebody who won’t contaminate the crime.”
“Thank you, Mr…”
“Gregson’s the name.” He hung up. “Okay—now we just sit tight.”
Stephen and Joel were looser than geese. They looked like they might shit their pants.
“Heck with this—I can’t breathe in here,” Stephen said. “It reminds me too much of high school.”
“This was supposed to be my vacation,” Joel complained. “I’m getting out of here. You just don’t know what it’s like to have kids and a wife that constantly nags. I need freedom, while I can get it.”
They high-fived each other and ran towards the parking lot.
“I guess they want to spend time in a Mexican prison,” Gregson said.
“Come on—you put Talbert up to that,” Silas said. Gregson raised his eyebrows.
The Tom Cruises jumped into their red sportscar and turned the ignition.
“Give it some gas,” Joel complained.
“I’ve got to take this into the shop to get it worked on,” Stephen said. Then a bolt of electricity jumped out of the radio.
“That can’t be good.”
“Get out of there!” Gregson shouted.
The Tom Cruises jumped, and the Triumph blew-up like a rocket trying to reach the blue sky. It was a pillar of fire, and then the classic car came crashing down.
There were brown stains on the seats of their pants. They weren’t sitting on melted candy bars. Gregson ruled them out as suspects, then and there.