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police men.
The police man that came into my room was tall and skinny and he had a moustache that looked just like someone had drawn it on with a pencil. I couldn't stop staring at it. It made him look French, the kind of French I always thought about when I was reading about stuff like Inspector Poirot, then I thought about Gill bein' French and now dead and that reminded me not to smile so much when the police man sat down next to me.

"Nevin," this was already sucking. "N.B., I think they call you..." That's better I thought.

"Yessir?"

"N.B., I need to ask you some questions about what happened at 134 Locust Street two weeks ago." He looked a lot like he could be someone Uncle Jacob would like to meet.

"By law I have to wait until your mother and father get here to ask you questions about what happened."

"Okay." I wasn't scared 'cause Dad always told me to tell the truth to cops and that they were there to protect us. I don't have anything to hide.



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