Duh...ope (1 of several)- The Alibi

          The slapping of footsteps splashing through filthy puddles accompanied the gasps of raspy breath echoing through the dark alleyway. In the shadows of the narrow passage, a gaunt figure slowed to a stop, leaned against an overflowing garbage can and looked over his shoulder, gulping in the cool night air as he scanned the darkness for his pursuers.

          Fumbling in his pockets, the dark-clad figure removed a fistful of plastic baggies containing off-white rocks of crack-cocaine and tightly packaged bundles of Marijuana before flinging them into the surrounding debris. From his waistband he produced a small caliber pistol, its handle wrapped in black electrical tape and, this too, he tossed into the trash heap.

          As the lights of a vehicle washed over the alleyway behind him, the figure turned and ran for the rusted chain link fence at the end of the alley, barely pausing to turn his body as he slipped through the gap. Once clear of the cloth snatching claws of the damaged chain links and safely on the street he turned to run…and was promptly tackled by a burly man, similarly clad in dark clothing. The difference being that this newcomer was equipped with a thigh holster and the shining badge of a policeman dangling around his neck from a chain.

          That’s about the time I arrived; wheezing from the effort of having run the half block pursuit and nearly faint from exhaustion. After purging my late night dinner of waffles and eggs (and a portion of my stomach lining) in a nearby rosebush, I wiped the muck from my bearded chin with the back of my hand and approached the supine suspect that the younger, and much more athletic, Street Crimes guy had been so kind to leave handcuffed on the ground.

          Rolling the thug onto his back with the toe of my boot, I squatted and pulled him up by the collar of his hooded pullover. Drawing his face close to mine I detected the tell-tale reek of “Purple-weed” on his person, and, in turn, gave him a good whiff of the lingering odor of my own gastrointestinal emanations as I snarled at him with one curled lip.

          “I…hate…running,” I informed the suspect before gently slamming him back onto the concrete. “Search him,” I instructed whoever was listening before I went back to grabbing my knees in an attempt to catch my breath.

          “We got dope,” I heard one of my fellow Narcs say as he pulled two baggies and a wad of currency from the suspect’s pocket. “And cash.”

         “Got a lot more and a gun back here,” another member of our team advised from the other side of the fence.

       “Nice,” I said with relief. The modest bust having made all the running worthwhile… well, almost.

         “You’re screwed Demarius,” I told the suspect, “What’s that, three? Four dope arrests?”

          “And a gun.” Detective "Larry" said as he appeared, almost wraith-like, from the shadows over my shoulder.

     “And a gun,” I added, with a nod towards my sneaky compadres.

          “M-man, I-I-I…” began our suspect.

         Here it comes, I thought as I shook my head. The standard string of lame-brained excuses and alibis, the likes of which we’d all heard many times over. Let’s see what this genius had to say.

          “That ain’t my gun,” Demarius advised, “and these ain’t my pants.”

         “You know how many times I’ve heard…” I stopped myself short. It seemed that I had, up until that point, really not heard “them all”. Playing it over again in my head, I confirmed with a look towards my partners that what I though I had heard about the pants, currently sagging around our suspect’s bony ass, not being his was what I had indeed heard. Seeing their grins, I knew that it was so.

          “Really?” I asked incredulously, “Well then, who’s pants are they?”

          “M-my brother’s,” Demarius stammered.

          “Your brother’s?” I asked, trying to wrap my mind around his logic.

          “Yeah, I musta put his on instead of mine.”

         “I see. Soooo…you’re saying is that your brother regularly keeps crack cocaine in his pockets?”

          “Man, I don’t know what he does, brah,” Demarius answered.

          “What about the money?” I asked. “Is that your brother’s too?”

          “No,” said Demarius, “I put that in there. But they got deep pockets.”

          “Deep enough,” Larry cut in, “that you didn't feel the thirty bags of dope and a gun in the pockets of a pair of pants that you put on, but again, aren't yours?”

          “Yeah,” Demarius began, “If…” but we were on a roll, so his rationalization was lost under the knobby tires of our collective, investigative machine.

          Larry continued, “Hold on a second. So, the first thing you did upon realizing the pants contained illegal narcotics was to automatically assume that the pants and the drugs..."
            "And the gun," I supplied.
           "And the gun," added Larry, "belonged to your brother? And that's why you ran and tried to get rid of the shit?”

            Demarius nodded, believing that he now had us all against the ropes.

          One of the Street Crime guys jumped in as if on cue and said, “It's probably none of my business, but that tells me your brother must keep dope in his pockets an awful lot. That about right?”

           “Well…I mean, I…” Demarius babbled.

          “Very good point,” I complimented my fellow officer, “And based on that, we can then assume that you, Demarius, are aware that your brother has a readily available supply of cocaine. Which, to some, might be misconstrued as your admitting involvement in a conspiracy to sell narcotics. Is it just me or is that what you guys got out of it?” Everybody but Demarius nodded in unison.

          The wheels were spinning and I detected a whiff of already burnt brain cells smoldering in Demarius’ head as he answered, “I…guess, I mean…I don’t…”

          “Shit,” the last member of our group and fellow Narcotics officer leaned in close enough so that Demarius could clearly see the evil gleam in his eyes, “With an eye-witness account like that, we might even have enough to get a judge to sign off on a search warrant.”
          "So what do you say Demarius, should we take a ride over to your house?"

          “My house?” Demarius asked.

          “Well yeah,” I said, “I mean if you accidentally put on your brother’s pants, I think it’s fair to assume you share a room with him.”

          That’s when Demarius laughed in our faces, “Man, you is some stupid cops. My brother lives over by my grandma's house.”

          Ah yes, Demarius; we is indeed the stupid ones.