Virgil said, “Yep,” and Alice went away to get it.
“Catch the kid yet?” Harry asked.
“I investigated every one of them that I know about and they’re all clearly innocent,” Virgil lied. “Your theory sucks a hot desert wind.”
“Haven’t found the right kid yet, that’s all,” Harry said. “Let me make another observation—also from the files ofNCIS.”
“Feel free,” Virgil said, as Alice delivered the Miller Lite.
“Here’s the thing, Virgil: you’ve already met the killer.”
“I’ve met the killer?”
“Sure. Gibbs always meets the killer early in the show whenhe doesn’t know the other guy is the killer. Every single time,” Harry said.
Virgil said, “Huh. Harry, I suspect that might have more to do with the story structure of the show. They can’t have Gibbs going along investigating and investigating, getting nowhere, and then pull the killer out of his butt at the last minute. If they did that, how would the audience even know that the bad guy was all that bad?”
Harry shrugged. “All right, don’t believe me, but you’ll see. A murder investigation, as far as I can tell, is exactly like you see on a TV show.”
“I told somebody a couple of days ago that a murder investigation is never like TV,” Virgil said.
“Well, you’re wrong. You’ve got your cast of characters, and you know, going in, that one of them did it. If you’ve been investigating for weeks, you’ve already met the whole cast.”
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree,” Virgil said.
Alice had been listening in and she said to Virgil, “Okay, so I ask you this, Virgil. Did you ever investigate, like, a real mystery? Not somebody holding up a gas station or a liquor store? A real mystery?”
“A few times,” Virgil said.
“In any of those times,” she asked, “did you ever not meetel villano,el malo, before you know that he wasel villano?”
Virgil had to think a minute, then said, “You know, I guess I haven’t. I’m sure I will, but so far—”
“Ha,” Harry said. “Now that you know that you’ve met the killer, you can probably figure this out before morning. For that, you owe me a beer.”
Virgil looked at Alice, and asked, “Where is he on the beer total?”
“Only two. After four, he recites this poem. That is not a good time to be here.”
“That hurts, honey. Greatest poem ever written,” Harry said. He looked at Virgil. “‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’”
Virgil: “No.”
“All of it,” Alicia said. “Unless the bouncer throws him out in the street.”
“When I’m drinking wine, I can do all of ‘Gunga Din,’” Harry said. After a moment, he added, “And that’s about it. ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’ and ‘Gunga Din.’”
Virgil took a swallow of beer, leaned back in his chair, burped, and recited,
“There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
