Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

As I hit the ground, I saw that one of them had a bloody nose, and that the other one was missing a shoe. I focused on the fact that his tan stopped at his ankle and I thought that was really weird. All I could think was “socks and boat shoes?” This floated through my mind in the seconds before the pain in my face flooded like a tsunami into my consciousness.
    My head landed next to Trixie’s front paws. She immediately set up a howl, barking as though she were rabid. In between barking, she licked my face. I must have looked pretty bad if she was that concerned. She started circling the parking meter and uttered a few low moans. I heard strains of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People” coming from inside Beans, Beans, a lot of cursing, and finally, a loud and booming “Dudes!”
    I’m going to have much bigger problems than wearing a bathing suit to a pool party, I thought, as I touched the welt growing under my eye. I struggled to my feet with a little help from Greg, who was wearing a T-shirt that said DON’T NEED A PERMIT FOR THESE GUNS with arrows pointing to either arm. Greg is big, but he’s not fit, and despite the pain I was in, I was feeling a little punchy. I burst out laughing, which turned to crying in mere seconds.
    “Dude,” he said, taking my elbow. “Come inside. I’ve already called the police.” He took in the two men and shook his head sadly. Jesus, Greg’s homeboy, would not be pleased. The two men were still rolling around on the sidewalk, and nobody was trying to intervene now that they were out of Greg’s shop; the crowd obviously ascribed to the “don’t get involved” line of reasoning or else they just enjoyed watching a good donnybrook. I heard sirens as the police raced down Main Street and pulled to a stop in front of the store. The two men separated and I recognized one of the fighters: George Miller, the head of the Department of Public Works, who stood against the plate-glass window of Beans, Beans, panting heavily and pointing at the other man. The only reason I knew George was that I handed him a fat envelope of cash every year for his crew because, God knows, they had taken many a garbage collection from outside my house that wasn’t really on the Monday “approved” garbage list. Like a sleeper sofa. And a few paint cans that weren’t exactly clean. And more dog waste disguised as regular garbage than I could tally. I loved those guys and felt compelled to show my love once a year. I didn’t recognize the other guy and couldn’t imagine what had brought him to blows with the head of the DPW.
    A group of people who had been in the coffee shop had come out onto the street and were clustered a few feet away, mumbling quietly about what had happened. A couple of other patrons were still inside the store, their noses pressed up against the other side of the glass window. Miller said nothing because he couldn’t catch his breath. He bent over at the waist and put his hands on his knees.
    The other man, the one without the shoe and the tan that stopped at his ankle, rested against a parking meter. “You’ll be sorry, Miller,” he said, much too calmly for someone who had just engaged in such strenuous fisticuffs. He was in his mid-forties, with a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses that sat askew on his face. Unlike Miller, who was a rough-hewn kind of guy with a ruddy complexion, he didn’t seem like the type who engaged in these kinds of shenanigans on any kind of regular basis. Having seen Miller around town, dealing with the townsfolk and his crew with a demeanor that could only be described as “impatient,” I was not entirely surprised to see him as one half of the brawling duo. The other guy, however, seemed like he would be more comfortable at the local country club—the one that cost a quarter of a million dollars just to apply to—than rolling around Main Street with the head of the DPW.
    Two policemen approached the men. Greg knew both of them. “Hi, Larry. Joe,” he said, his meaty hand still gripping my elbow. “I’ll be inside. These two are up to their usual b.s., but this time, they’ve hurt someone else,” he said, pointing to me. I’m hurt? I thought. That wasn’t good news. I kind of suspected it but I didn’t like getting confirmation from an outside source.
    Larry, I presumed, motioned to me. “Do we need an ambulance, Greg?”
    “Oh, good God, no!” I said, more forcefully than I intended. Larry gave me a