Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

When Officer Henderson arrived on the scene there had already been one murder. Marty Jenkins was standing on the porch of the Rosetti house, his dog's still warm corpse dripping blood on the slate near his feet. It was going to be a long shift for Hendo if the current scenario was to be any indicator.

"How we doin', Marty?" the policeman asked casually. The two men frequented the same coffee stop in the morning. Henderson was hoping to hear a tone similar to that sort of encounter, but knew it wasn't coming. Other neighbors had called the station for fear that things were about to get ugly based on the shouting coming from Vince Rosetti's porch, though solely from Marty Jenkins. This approach was a feeble attempt, but one that the officer felt he had to make.

"Everything was fine 'til Vince shot my dog!" Marty exclaimed like a third-grader who'd been called on to answer a difficult math question and swore he knew the right response.

"That's not what happened, Hen," Vince's steady voice came from his place behind his cracked front door.

"Everyone knows you've got an arsenal in there, and that you're a crack shot. Who'd'a thunk you'd kill your neighbor's pet, though? You're an animal, Vince. Ya know that?"

Before things could escalate any further the veteran member of the Newbury Police Department decided to interject. "Let's not go jumping to conclusions, Mr. Jenkins," Hendo said, his change in tone and familiarity being noticeably altered. "We'll get to the bottom of this. Don't worry. Mr. Rosetti, did you do what your friend here is accusing you of?" The pleading sound in Hendo's voice would've been enough to convince someone to agree regardless of the truth, but Vince Rosetti was known to be a man of his word.

"It wasn't me who shot the damn thing, Hendo," he answered unwaveringly, his strikingly dark eyes fixed on the officer's. "But I can't say I blame whoever did. That thing's been barking from five to seven in the morning for the last two weeks. Someone was bound to get sick of it eventually. If Marty here couldn't handle keeping his dog inside then maybe he should've brought some nice quiet goldfish home instead."

Marty was so appalled by Vince's words that he took a step back, kicking his dead dog in the process. His heel bounced off of the animal's snout as if his hand had never stroked it. It's presence was reduced to a source of evidence. All affection had been drained from the relationship the moment that shot rang out, destroying the tranquility of the crisp February morning. Officer Henderson felt his blood pump harder to fight the sudden chill that came over him. What was he to do in a situation like this? Half the people in town owned guns and five of them had yards that bordered the Jenkins'. Vince Rosetti was the obvious assumption for a man like Marty Jenkins for precisely the reason that the former's initial statement had displayed: he wasn't afraid to do and say what he felt was right, regardless of the consequences. It was something that Marty would never understand, and one that gained the respect of Hendo, even in his Officer Henderson role. Still, some effort had to be made to satisfy the violated party.

"Vince, would you mind letting me take a look around? If a shot was recently fired from inside the smell of gunpowder would still be in the air." Hendo's right eyebrow raised as he finished his last sentence as if to signal his desire to end things quickly and in Vince's favor. He knew the oath he'd taken as a peace officer long ago required him to protect and to serve, but somehow it was harder to do when it involved hassling an honest man like Vince Rosetti to appease the Marty Jenkinses of the world.

"Not a problem, officer," Vince replied with a nod that signified his understanding of the lawman's intentions.

But before any of the three men could make another move the second shot of the morning broke the tense silence. Then a third, a fourth, all coming from directly behind the Jenkins' house.

"That's the old Colston place!" Marty yelled from his newly acquired safe position behind a fifty-five-gallon drum Vince kept in his yard as a burn barrel. Officer Henderson noted the speed which Marty displayed in his strategic displacement.

"Sure sounds that way," Vince agreed.

Officer Henderson wasn't about to question the two men. He instantly reached for his radio and called in the location of the disturbance. The three of them remained with their feet planted firmly to the frozen ground in anticipation of another shot. It never came. When three more squad cars pulled up in front of the Rosetti home Officer Henderson snapped back into action.

"Alright, men. I don't know what's going on over at the Colstons', but there might be a burglary in progress. Let's wait and see if anyone comes out." The authority in his directives comforted the younger police officers. Newbury had never seen any real violent crime before, but cable TV piped in plenty of haunting images. Every man in blue wanted to go home to his wife and kids at the end of the day more than he wanted to be a hero. If the revered Officer Henderson wanted to wait it out, they'd wait. Gladly.

But before any of them could even recall the last time they'd drawn their weapons from their holsters other than to clean them the mystery was solved. Old Man Colston came storming out of his cottage with his hands raised high. "Take me in, boys! After takin' care of that first nuisance earlier this morning I decided to get rid of that other thorn that's been in my side for the last fifty years. She's on the kitchen floor, dead as doornail."

Officer Henderson took the ornery old man into custody, making sure not to tighten the cuffs too much. This would be a lot of paperwork, alright. At least it happened early enough in the day to make supper at home feasible.

Marty Jenkins stood up straight beside the steel drum he'd befriended. As he scratched his head he turned to face the inevitable scorn from his long-time neighbor who'd been wrongly accused, only to find out he was wrong for the second time that day.

Vince Rosetti was already back in bed waiting for his alarm to sound. Winter was the off-season for the building trades; he was savoring his unemployment. It was foolish to get out of bed before nine for anything short of the Rapture.