short, short story (part 1)

"He was this stumpy guy, in his 50s, a white guy, he had a face kind of like a little terrier, you know?" Richard had been talking to the cops for 3 minutes and 34 seconds at this point, and he didn't feel any closer to getting his point across.

"And he was just standing there?", the fatter one said. Again.

"Yes, he was just standing there, but for about FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, you know? He just looked sneaky, or guilty, generally, I guess."

"Sir, he may have been waiting for someone, or picking someone up. We don't have the time, the manpower, or, frankly, the inclination to come check out everyone someone sees loitering somewhere."

The older cop nearly managed to keep world-weary condescension out of his tone, but Richard automatically bristled at basically being told not to worry his pretty little head.

"OK, fine, but when I see this guy on the news next week after the downtown library is Sarin gassed, don't come back asking me a lot of questions then, because..." Richard didn't like the look of the glance the two cops shared at the mention of nerve gas. "Because, you know, it's always ones like that where people say, 'Oh, he seemed so nice and ordinary', and..." He definitely didn't like the way the cops were openly looking at each other now; he could almost see them weighing the possibility that the "old guy standing across the street staring at him for 45 minutes" was just his way of crying out for attention, and for help.