Michael Foody

The window, the outside window, was made from the same two way mirror stuff as they have in interrogation rooms. It was Lettered in white and it caught the reflection of the snow and the white winter sky and it was difficult to read. It said Hazeltown Post Office. The detective had known the postal clerk who worked there for some time. They thought of themselves as friends but didn’t think of each other often enough for it to be true. The wrestled together in high school and saw each other when the detective bought stamps. 

He was a big guy but with an amazingly gentle manor, he just radiated good will and patience and understanding. He sold used books on the internet and made some pretty decent money that way. The post office tried to keep him busy during the day and he tried to make himself useful but he still found himself with a lot of free time which he filled by keeping a novel jammed into a thin drawer under his desk. The spine was cracked and the cheap cardboard cover was threatening to come off. It was a cheap old book the kind with bright yellow edges. A western. He wore braces on his wrists for carpal tunnel and sat all day in a chair that was the envy of all his peers. He saw the detective in the distance and pretended not to see him so that he could rise from his work and offer a warm smile when he finally entered.

The detectives entrance was signaled by the tinkling of black iron bells which seemed to startle him as he turned sharply to confront his imagined jingling pursuer. He noticed the bells and blushed with embarrassment and saw the postal clerks smile and smiled back sort of jealous of his inability to convey the same beatific warmth with his own smile.

“Good to see you, what can I do for you Hank?” said the postman.

“I’m actually here about a case.”

“Oh no. Is everything ok?” 

“Yeah, things are fine, I just want you to look at something for me. See we got this letter the other day. I can’t get into the whole story, but we need to know if the postmark is accurate.”

“Mail fraud?”

“Maybe, but like I said I can’t get into it. You know how it goes.” The opened his brief case and brought out a manila folder containing a bag with the envelope in. He lifted it gingerly took a look at it himself, nodded, and place it on the counter. The postman eyed it suspiciously.

“Um, what exactly is it that I should be looking for?”

“I want to know whether the postmark was doctored. Whether the date is accurate.”

“It looks real Hank, it’s not like there’s any secret way of telling. We’re not to concerned with people faking post marks. There isn’t even a standard postmark that’s used everywhere sometimes they just get stamped by hand or x’d out in marker. This one looks like it was done by machine, but it doesn’t really mean anything, if someone was inclined they could just print their own.”

“So it might have just been doctored and hand delivered?” 

“Do you mind if I touch it? Just the bag. Not the letter. Fingerprints.”

“Sure. Knock yourself out.”

The postman lifted the bag delicately as though it would crumble and and spun it around to look at the other side. He pointed to a yellow sticker with a little bar code on it and said, “This here is a from one of the machines we use to process the mail. It’s pretty easy to take off though so it could have just been stuck on. I’ve never heard of anyone going to that much trouble to fake a date though. Thing is, if it’s real it should have another bar code like it but in florescent ink right under it. They use them when the machines send a letter to the wrong place so that other machines won’t keep sending it there over and over again. This letter looks like it’s been sent around a lot so if it was a fake it was a damn… thoughtful fake.”

The detective smiled, “That’s some good detective work, it’s a big help. Honestly. Thanks.”

The postman smiled. Proudly. “Glad I could help. Anything else?”

“Nope, got more stamps than I know what to do with. Pay my bills online now.”

“That online bill payment really cuts into the business.”

“I’d imagine so.”

“Take care now. Good luck with your case.” He said the word case with a tone of voice, a face, that revealed his real envy for the imagined excitement of police work. It was an honest sentiment but he revealed it almost entirely for the detective’s benefit. The postman had a gentle manor. He radiated good will.