Detective Marianne Martian had to laugh, seriously laugh. The guy had changed his story at least a half dozen times, and its “epic” stupidity simply grew along with the tale he told. How could he not see how ludicrous the story was? Massively in-congruent! She had to get up and leave before she burst into laughter. Motioning to Detective Gerald Whitesmith, she walked out and closed the door then wandered the length of the hall. She held her arm up to her face as though she were about to sneeze into her sleeve, but in reality, it was to muffle the laughter she could no longer contain. He joined her a couple of minutes later suppressing a grin of his own. The second they made eye contact, they burst out laughing until tears rolled down Marianne’s cheeks and Gerald was doubled over with laughter. It took a while to control their humour and when they’d finally managed a modicum of propriety, stood facing one another sharing a look of incredulity. Wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, Marianne asked, “Really? Really?” which only set her off on another bout of uncontrollable laughter that had her holding her stomach. “Oh, I can’t breathe! Oh, my stomach hurts. Make it stop!” and that only had her laughing all the more while begging for mercy.

“Seriously, I can’t go back in there. I simply can’t!” she stated before once again doubling up with laughter at the tangled web he’d weaved. “Am I that tired, or is this just that funny?” she asked Gerald.

Gerald found the situation as ridiculous as she did and understood her mirth completely. After regaining control, he rested a hand on her shoulder, “It’s ok, I’ll finish up.” He coughed, straightened and following another “ahem” turned to head back into the interrogation room. “Ok, ok!” he said before opening the door as if that would give him the strength to carry on without once again falling into laughter.

He walked in, sat down and looking MacNamara in the face, pulled a notebook from inside his file folder and dropping it on the table between them asked, “Recognize this, Mr. MacNamara?”

The man physically stuttered at the sight of the notebook. His notebook, the one he’d inadvertently dropped at the crime scene. Cautiously he asked, “What’s that?”

“That, Mr. Macnamara is your notebook, full of identifying clues. It contains a list of targets, not only the Harris house but the Johnston house several blocks away that you robbed on the same day. As you can see, it contains a note from your daughter with her home address. This,” Gerald waved the book in his face, “confirms you were there. Neither the Harris’s or Johnston’s have any idea who you are, have never been in contact with you, and it wouldn’t have been found in their house, unless you dropped it there. We also found the television and firearm you stole from their home at a pawn shop. The owner of the pawn shop, has identified you as the seller of the items. We have you cold on both thefts.”

The man’s shoulders drooped and he was then charged with aggravated burglary and led out. When Marianne re-joined him, he couldn’t refrain from remarking, “If only all burglars were as organized, our job would be a walk in the park!”

“I’ll say this for him,” Marianne remarked, “his organizational skills are bar none, the best I’ve ever seen!” and she once again burst into laughter. When she could contain herself she added, “Yep, that’s one for the books and gives new meaning to organized crime!” The remark had her once again walking away, shoulders shaking with laughter.

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