Forensics - The Wheelman

LISA WOKE UP AND STARED AT THE BLOODIED SWEATSHIRT again.

It had been balled up and pitched into a corner, along with a pair of wrinkled dress slacks, socks, and underwear. The underwear was definitely not Andrew’s. When they’d first started dating, Andrew had worn tighty-whiteys—Fruit of the Loom. Gross! Old-man underwear. No matter how tough the guy, it made his legs look like little froggy legs poking out of a diaper.

Andrew loathed boxers; they were too baggy to wear under jeans, he said. So Lisa promptly escorted her American Express Gold card and Andrew to Boscov’s, at the Franklin Mills Mall, where they settled on the next best thing: Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs. Lisa vetoed anything close to white; Andrew went home with a half-dozen three-packs of navy blue, black, and dark gray. The tighty-whiteys went into the weekly garbage.

The underwear balled up in the corner was a pair of blue-green plaid boxer shorts. Definitely not something Andrew would wear.

So whose were they?

The sweatshirt was a gray deal with navy blue letters: FATHER JUDGE HIGH SCHOOL emblazoned on the front. That wasn’t Andrew’s either—he was a St. Joe’s Prep boy. Even more disturbing were the bloodstains, which were more black than red, and still wet to the touch (gross!), near the left shoulder. The sweatshirt reeked.

Lisa took another look at the dress slacks, at the label. Slates, size 34L, 30W. Andrew’s size exactly. And Andrew’s preferred label. He had two pair, which he wore Friday and Saturday nights alternately when he had gigs. Were these Andrew’s pants?

And if so, why were they rolled up in a ball along with somebody else’s clothes?