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millimeters. It comes with a bright or dull finish and also with embossed patterns–”
    “Shhh.”
    “Foils are available in thirty-three distinct colors. In 1910, when the first aluminum foil rolling plant was opened in Kreuzlingen, Switzerland. The plant, owned by J.G. Neher & Sons, stood at the foot of the Rhine Falls and captured the falls’ energy. Neher's sons together with Dr. Lauber–oh, Dr. Lauber! Dr. Lauber!–discovered the endless rolling process and the use of aluminum foil as a protective barrier.”
    The ice pick had ripped through his memories. Even if he hadn't invented aluminum foil, he sure knew a hell of a lot about it. I couldn’t quite figure why his head was full of all this, but it was probably no worse than thinking about stealing Dutch Master prints and heading to Aruba. I wondered what I would be spouting on about in my last minute if someone stuck a blade into my brain.
    I should’ve offered up some kind of soothing words to send him on his way, but he looked animated and eager to chat despite the fact that his brains were leaking out of his ears and tear ducts. I should’ve asked him who had done this to him. Instead I said, “Why the hell would you lie about a thing like that?”
    “I wanted to meet girls. Forgive me!”
    In the hierarchy of sins I thought that lying about inventing aluminum foil in order to meet chicks–which in itself wasn’t particularly immoral–just didn’t rate very high on the damnation scale. I figured if a priest had been handy, he would’ve given dispensation without much of a problem.
    “You’re forgiven,” I said. “Who did this to you?”
    “Dr. Lauber! Dr. Lauber!”
    “Tell me who–”
    “God, the things I’ve done. I once struck my mother. I ran over a dog, someone’s pet. I broke the hearts of my own children. I hurt a woman, she bled. I shall surely go to hell. Please, Dr. Lauber!”
    “Shhh.”
    “Dr. Lauber!”
    “Close your eyes.”
    He finally did and died that instant.
    ~ * ~
    The cops questioned me fult tilt boogie. They came around in three teams of two. I got the Officer Friendlys, the hair-trigger hardcase growlers, and the plaintive guys who just sort of whined at me and wanted me to admit to murder. I told them his last words and they thought maybe he had ratted out the almighty and vengeful aluminum foil powers that be. They quizzed each other about the name Dr. Lauber. They all said it sounded familiar, maybe a hitman working for the syndicate. Maybe a plastic surgeon who’d gone out of his tree. I suspected that if anybody Googled the name they’d find him to be the man who’d discovered the endless rolling process with the sons of J.G. Neher.
    The whiners took me down to the station and put me in a holding room with a big mirror, where I stared at myself and whoever was behind it and started to re-evaluate the cops in my novels. I’d been trying way too hard. I‘d been breaking my ass creating brilliant detectives who solved crimes with the sparsest clues. But these guys were never going to figure out who’d killed the aluminum foil liar, not unless somebody confessed out of hand just to stop all the bitching.
    Eventually they cut me loose and I wandered the streets. I was the guy who had to clean up all the blood off the lobby floor back at Stark House. I didn’t want to go back yet. I’d seen death before but not murder. I’d written about it and I recognized how far off I’d been from what it really felt like to be in the presence of homicide.
    A certain sense of guilt lashed me as I thought about how close I’d come to walking in on the man being attacked. Maybe two minutes, maybe less. Perhaps I could’ve prevented it. If only I’d moved a little faster. If only I’d run out into the street to see what could be seen. Maybe I would’ve spotted a killer rushing away or hailing a cab.
    I stopped into a bookstore and bought Corben’s latest novel. His dedication read: To all those who love the