An Actual Crime. Been A While Since We Saw One Of Those.

Nobody reads these anyway, so I can call it whatever.

There’s two security cameras watching me. The feeling isn’t exactly comfortable, but I can deal with it. I have to wonder, though, what’s the point of having two cameras if you have them both looking at the same thing?

So whatta we got?

“What do you think?”

Well, if dis goes da way mosta our stuff goes, den either somebody busted through da wall cause they thought dey could get at da dough dat way, or it’s all a minunderstandin and it’s jus some guy doin repairs but an ol lady called da cops cuz she’s batty.

“You prejudiced against bats, or something?”

Hey, ya asked!

There’s not much left in the closet they, assuming it was more than one person, broke into. A bag, a flashlight, and pile of sheetrock chunks. Doesn’t communicate with the vault at all: the only door leads out to a back hallway and the other side says ‘Janitor.’ Seems simple enough that Max could figure it out: some schmo thought that after putting on a solid steel vault door, the bank wouldn’t bother to make the walls out of anything sturdier than plaster. But there’s six things about this that bug me.

“Why does somebody break into the closet?”

Max blinks. I ain’t touchin dat one.

“Why do they find a burlap sack in there? You don’t keep cleaning supplies in a burlap sack.”

Maybe dere wuz sumthin more pricey dan mop-n-glo in dere?

“Then why did they take it out? Why not  just grab the sack? That’d have to be easier to carry than taking out whatever was in there, especially since they apparently took of their gloves as they left. Why would anyone do that?”

Uh, cause it wuz getting too hot?

“Then there’s the fact that pulling this job can’t have been inconspicuous. They’ve got a drill, a chisel, and they left this mound of debris.” I frown at the cameras. “Why didn’t the thief care that he’d be seen by the cameras? And why wasn’t the thief seen by the teller?”

Max shrugs. I guess he does that a lot. Well, den we can ask da guy when we grabbim. He ain’t gonna be hard ta find. You’d tink he woulda figgered dat out, at least.

If I was a cartoon, a lightbulb would have gone on over my head. “He did.”

Whut?

“He wants us chasing him, thinking it’ll be easy. He made it easy. Too easy. He wants our eyes on the hand where the coin is supposed to be.” I dive back into the closet. Doesn’t take long to find the happy little demolition explosive attached to the wall the closet shares with the vault.

“I think you might wanna have a chat with the teller, boys,” I tell the officers as the charge in, panting, “and maybe the janitor too, while you’re at it.”

The Final Word.

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