The Question of the Felonious Friend

Copyright Information

The Question of the Felonious Friend: An Asperger's Mystery
© 2016 by E.J. Copperman and Jeff Cohen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author's copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2016

E-book ISBN: 9780738749051

Book format by Bob Gaul

Cover design by Ellen Lawson

Cover illustration by James Steinberg/Gerald & Cullen Rapp

Editing by Nicole Nugent

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Copperman, E. J., author. | Cohen, Jeffrey, author.

Title: The question of the felonious friend : an asperger's mystery /
E. J. Copperman, Jeff Cohen.

Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2016] |

Series: An asperger's mystery ; 3

Identifiers: LCCN 2016008351 | ISBN 9780738743516 (softcover)

Subjects: LCSH: Asperger's syndrome—Patients—Fiction. |

Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3603.O358 Q46 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016008351

Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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Midnight Ink

Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

2143 Wooddale Drive

Woodbury, MN 55125

www.midnightinkbooks.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

For our real friends: Jeff Pollitzer, Ken Cohen, Lou Grantt,
Jennifer E. Beaver, Matt Kaufhold, and so many others.
You're in these pages even if you don't know it.

Authors' Note

You'd think two authors would be enough to argue, compromise (remember that, Congress?), and finally create something that will end up as the book you hold in your hands or on your screen. Or maybe are listening to with your ears. This is getting complicated. Anyway, you'd think two people would be enough for all that. But you'd be off by a fairly large number.

First of all, Terri Bischoff of Midnight Ink had to read the first Asperger's mystery,
The Question of the Missing Head,
and like it enough to publish it and ask for more. She has read and edited all three of Samuel's questions so far, and we always love to hear what she has to say, mostly because she likes what we write, which is always a nice thing.

But the book doesn't stop there (that was a pun). Thanks to Nicole Nugent for editing the manuscript and turning it into something coherent. Your work is never taken for granted, Nicole.

And the volume eventually has to have a cover, which might be what attracted you to this book in the first place. So thank you to Ellen Lawson for the cover design, to James Steinberg/Gerald & Cullen Rapp for the cover illustration, and to Bob Gaul for the book format that makes it readable, or at least more readable than when we submitted it.

If you do happen to be hearing rather than seeing these words, our sincere thanks to Mark Boyett for bringing Samuel and all the other characters (and there are a LOT) in these volumes to life. We are in awe of your talent and love to hear the audio versions from Audible as soon as they're available.

To the people who put up with us while we're writing 1,000 words a day—Jessica, Josh, Eve, and everybody at HSG Agency—yes, we know how difficult authors can be. Not us, of course, but authors. And we appreciate all you do for us. Mostly by not killing us and creating some incredibly complicated scenario to cover it all up.

But our readers (and we're pretty sure we know each of your names) are the people who keep this series going. Your loyalty and interest have been amazing, and the connection to Samuel, Janet, and Vivian is remarkable. Especially to those on the spectrum who have contacted us: We can't thank you enough. But consider this and subsequent books our attempts to do so.

—E.J. Copperman and Jeff Cohen
February 2016

One

I received a text
message.

This in itself was unusual. I had only recently purchased a cellular phone at the urging of my associate Ms. Washburn. I have some anxiety about it because I am given to misplacing some objects I own, and had taken to keeping the iPhone in my front trouser pocket and patting my thigh on occasion to confirm its continued presence there. It is a comforting ritual and one that I do not consider inappropriate or odd.

The fact that the cellular phone was now buzzing, an indication that a text message had been received,
was
odd. Only three people have been given the number to my cellular phone: my mother, Ms. Washburn, and my friend Mike, who drives a taxicab. All of them know of my distaste for text messaging, which is an illogical pursuit. Texting does not increase the speed of the information being communicated. It actually slows the exchange, as a simple telephone conversation can be conducted in much less time. Answers to questions will come instantaneously in a conversation. By text, they can take minutes or longer.

Ms. Washburn surely had not sent a text message to my iPhone. She was sitting at her desk, only nine feet to my left, and was engaged in billing some clients whose questions we had recently answered. It would be ridiculous for her to send a text when she could simply look up and speak to me directly.

My mother had not sent the message, either. For that matter, neither had Mike. The number being displayed on the screen, which identifies the incoming caller, was not a familiar one, although its 732 area code indicated it was a local one, at least narrowing the location of the caller—or the caller's phone number, as a cellular phone might very well be calling from anywhere—to central New Jersey.

Ms. Washburn looked up from her work when my iPhone buzzed. “What's that?” she asked. “Is someone calling you, Samuel?”

I shook my head. “It is a text message,” I said.

Ms. Washburn looked puzzled, an expression I have learned to recognize and have seen on a number of occasions when I have said something Ms. Washburn did not understand or was not expecting. “I thought you didn't like texting,” she replied.

“I don't.” I looked at the screen and considered whether it made sense to unlock the phone's system in order to read a text message from someone I probably would not know. “Some telephone solicitors might use text messages.”

“Why don't you read it and find out?” Ms. Washburn asked. Sometimes when she asks a question like that, it makes me see the simplicity of the situation. There was no danger in reading a text message; it could not corrupt my iPhone's software simply by existing.

I opened the phone's systems and read the text.
Is this Questions Answered?
, it read.

The question itself illustrated one of the many problems with the concept of a text message. It was difficult to answer, and would have been considerably more clear and quickly disposed of in a traditional conversation.

Was
what
Questions Answered? Obviously, the person sending the text wanted to know if he or she had reached my business, but had not asked the question in a fashion that was designed to elicit that information. If I were to answer what had been asked of me, I would have to determine exactly what the sender was asking.

“What does it say?” Ms. Washburn asked.

I pondered the question. Questions Answered, the business I'd started one year, two weeks, and three days earlier, had its own telephone number, which was assigned to the landline only inches from my right hand on my desk (an extension telephone was located on Ms. Washburn's desk). So to be exact, if the text sender was asking whether he or she had reached my business, the answer would be that he or she had not. Instead, the texter had reached me personally and that was not the same thing. Ms. Washburn was part of the business and she had not been contacted in this fashion.

But since Questions Answered is my business, and since its concept is that I will personally answer questions for clients if the question is interesting (and the client is willing to pay my fee), the argument could be made that reaching me was equivalent to reaching the office. After all, even on the landline, only Ms. Washburn or I can speak at once. In order to contact both of us, it would be necessary to employ speakerphone.

“It is a text message asking if this is Questions Answered,” I told Ms. Washburn. “I'm not sure how to respond.”

She smiled in a familiar fashion. Ms. Washburn believes that my Asperger's Syndrome, a particular set of personality traits some see as a “disorder,” leads me to overanalyze some situations, and it seemed that was her opinion at the moment. “Tell them yes,” she suggested.

Rather than explain my reasoning to her, I responded via text to the person who had contacted me.
It is. Do you have a question?

To my relief, the response came only eleven seconds later.
I have many questions.

I did not see how that was going to be useful information. “Should I tell the person to call the office phone?” I asked Ms. Washburn. “If we keep up like this, it could be a very long time before we know what the point of the conversation might be.”

Her brow wrinkled a bit. “But you're concerned about speaking to a new person on your personal line,” she said. It was not a reminder, but an analysis. Ms. Washburn is very good at interpreting my words and anticipating the issues that might give a person like me some anxiety. Since her first day at Questions Answered, during which we had encountered the Question of the Missing Head, she had proven herself intuitive, intelligent, and invaluable.

“That's correct,” I said. “Suppose this person has some nefarious purpose.”

Ms. Washburn stood up and walked to my side. “I doubt someone trying to do you harm would start by asking if they had reached Questions Answered,” she said. “Suppose they want to hire us.”

The phone buzzed again. I looked down and saw the same message repeated.

“Why don't you call the number?” Ms. Washburn said. “That will give you the upper hand.” I could not be certain if her tone contained some irony. But her suggestion was quite practical.

I called the number listed from the mysterious texter and listened to the phone ring three times. A voice, male, immediately asked, “Is this Questions Answered?”

Ms. Washburn, who probably was able to hear what had been said, nodded her head, indicating I should say it was.

“This is the cellular telephone of one of the people who works at Questions Answered,” I responded. “How did you get this phone number, and why did you not call the business number that is listed on our website?” Ms. Washburn had created a website for the business five months before.

A sound came through the phone that was clearly generated by the person calling but was not really speech. It sounded like, “Nnnn-nnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

Ms. Washburn looked a little concerned. I was not really sure how best to proceed, as that was not a communicative sound.

“How did you obtain this telephone number?” I asked again. I confess, repetition was the only course of action that came to mind.

“Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn … ”

Ms. Washburn picked up a small pad from my desk and wrote on it,
He might be on the spectrum.

That meant my caller could be someone with Asperger's Syndrome or a related “disorder” classified under the autism umbrella in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a publication from the American Psychiatric Association. The DSM-V, as it is best known, no longer recognizes Asperger's Syndrome but would undoubtedly identify me as someone whose behavior is consistent with autism in some form.

I consider such classifications demeaning, frankly, but the issue at hand was the caller, and what Ms. Washburn was suggesting seemed likely.

Since I had heard the caller's voice, I knew he was capable of speech. It was possible, then, that my aggressive response to his original question with queries of my own might have upset the planned conversation he had expected. Perhaps a different tactic would yield better results.

“This is Questions Answered,” I said into the iPhone. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig. With whom am I speaking?”

There was a six-second period of silence, after which the caller said, “I'm Tyler Clayton. I have a question I would like to have answered. May I come to your office at 735 Stelton Road in Piscataway, New Jersey?”

Ms. Washburn's suspicions were proving correct—this was definitely someone whose behavior would indicate a degree of autism. “You may,” I answered. It would be best not to present Tyler Clayton with a question, so I added, “Tell me where you are and I will provide directions.”

Unfortunately I was met with the repetition of, “Nnnnnnnnn … ”

Ms. Washburn, eyes narrowing, walked to my right, through our offices, which are in a space previously occupied by a pizzeria called San Remo's. She moved to the area in front of the vending machine (diet soda for Ms. Washburn, spring water for me, and green tea for Mother) and looked outside.

“Samuel,” she said. She pointed toward the front window. I walked over to her and looked where she indicated.

Standing in the parking lot outside Question Answered was a man in his late twenties, if I were judging properly. He was a large man in every sense, tall and hefty. He wore black-rimmed eyeglasses, denim blue jeans, and a t-shirt bearing the logo of Hewlett-Packard. His hair was not recently washed. His left arm was flapping nervously at his side.

His right hand was holding a cellular phone, and he was staring intently at the offices we occupied.

I looked at Ms. Washburn and she nodded again.

“Come in, Tyler,” I said. “We are here to help if we can.”

We watched as he looked at the phone, then seemed to take a moment to collect himself. Ms. Washburn gestured that we should move back toward our desks, presumably to spare Tyler the embarrassment of being watched. I did notice before I turned that his left arm had ceased its vertical movement at his side as Tyler began walking toward the front door.

It took him longer than anticipated to come inside the Questions Answered offices, but I did not look to see if he was hesitating at the door. My philosophy since opening our doors the first day has been that clients should come in because they truly desire the service we provide and not due to any extraneous coercion on the part of the business. I have done some advertising in
The New York Times
and the
Home News-Tribune
, strictly to inform people that the service exists. The same was true of the few online ads Ms. Washburn had placed. I make no claims and offer no promises.

Tyler entered through the front door, then looked up, seemingly startled, at the bell attached to the door that rings when anyone enters or exits. The bell had been left there by the owners of San Remo's Pizzeria business and I had kept it to be sure I would not, in the heat of researching a question, fail to notice when a potential client might enter.

“Don't worry, Tyler,” Ms. Washburn said. “That happens whenever the door opens.”

Tyler looked at her, his head swiveling in her direction quickly. He seemed overwhelmed by everything in the room, which was surprising, since all the office held was a desk for me, one for Ms. Washburn, the drink machine, an overstuffed easy chair for my mother when she visited, and the unused pizza oven the previous tenants had left behind.

“Come in,” I said. “Do you have a question?”

Tyler Clayton did not look either Ms. Washburn or me directly in the eye. I understood that, since it has taken a good deal of training and practice for me to make eye contact in conversation. He stared at his shoes, which were made by New Balance and were black.

“I … I … yes,” he said. Then he nodded repeatedly, not so much affirming what he'd said as simply burning off nervous energy.

“Please sit down,” Ms. Washburn suggested, gesturing toward Mother's easy chair. I suppressed the urge to object, as I am not fond of having strangers sit in the chair we reserve for my mother. Sup
pose she dropped by unexpectedly? Where would she sit?

My concerns were nullified, however. Tyler shook his head slightly. “I'll stand,” he said.

Now I was a bit confused. I had been planning to sit behind my desk, the usual position I take when considering a question. But I am aware that there are some circumstances under which it is impolite to sit if another person in the room is still standing. I was not certain whether this was one of those instances.

Luckily, Ms. Washburn, to whom I look for many of my social cues when working, sat down behind her desk. “That's your choice,” she told Tyler. “I hope you don't mind if Samuel and I sit down.”

Tyler ignored her last statement and kept looking at his shoes. “Who are you?” he asked her. “I didn't know there would … would be two people.”

I was about to introduce Ms. Washburn, and perhaps to suggest that Tyler be more polite toward her, but she spoke before I could. “I'm Janet Washburn,” she said. “I work here at Questions Answered too. Would you prefer to talk only to Samuel?”

Tyler looked up, but not at either my face or Ms. Washburn's. He seemed to focus on the pizza ovens, and he studied them with great care. “No. It's okay if you work here.”

“What is the nature of your question?” I asked. There was no point in discussing Tyler's obvious difficulties. I assumed he had some support system in place. Someone had clearly driven him to our office, as he had not been standing near a vehicle when we first saw him, and the idea of Tyler driving a car was difficult to believe. He would probably stare at the gas pedal and pay no attention to the road. Or perhaps I was assuming his behavior in the office would be similar to that in a moving motor vehicle.