Myrna Kent gazed longingly at the shiny brochures showing delectable spots in Italy and Spain and smiled to herself. After playing the grieving widow at her husband, George’s funeral yesterday, she’d registered with the Galloway Travel Agency for their guided tour.

She told her friends, especially her neighbor, Ida, that she needed a change of scene, as “everything reminded her of poor George,” who had suffered with his heart condition. He had been fortunate in that she’d done him a favor by helping him along into that pastoral place in the sky—or wherever he was signed up for.

 

A knock on the door forced her to reluctantly push the brochures to one side of the kitchen table. It was Ida with a dish in her hand.

 

“Chicken casserole.” Ida walked in and set the dish on the table. “What’s this? Travel brochures?”

 

“Yes. I’m going on a trip.”

 

“So soon? Now I know you’ve had a difficult time these past few months, but won’t people talk? You know how they are in a small town.”

 

“If they do, they just don’t understand what I’m going through.”

 

“Your business,” Ida said, “but I think it’s too soon.”

 

“Don’t worry. George would have wanted it that way. ‘Myrna,’ he used to say, ‘you’re a saint to be home taking care of me day after day.’”

Of course, George had said no such thing, and it was all she could do to peek in his room to give the impression that she hadn’t forgotten him entirely. And she hadn’t; the insurance amount of one hundred thousand dollars kept shining in her mind like a neon light. She remembered how she had to get Ida to go to the pharmacy to get George’s digitalis prescription refilled. She hadn’t wanted to do that, but she couldn’t be in two places at the same time—with George and stockpiling the medication.

 

“I’m having friends over for a séance tonight,” Ida said.

 

“I thought I’d let you know in case you wanted to come.”

 

Mryna’s interest piqued. Ever since that trip three years ago to New Orleans, where she and George had stayed in a hotel that was “haunted,” she couldn’t get paranormal phenomenon out of her mind. Still, the invitation unnerved her, coming as suddenly as it did. It was one thing to attend a séance for fun, and quite another to have George come through and tell everybody who had helped him out of this world.

 

Myrna had to tread carefully here. “Do you think George will contact me?” She injected a note of forlorn hope in her tone.

 

“No,” said Ida, “not so soon after he passed on. He’s now in an intermediate plane until his soul is ready to cross over to its final abode.”

 

That suited Myrna perfectly. “Alright, I’ll come. What time?”

 

“About eight,” Ida said, and left.

 

After dinner, she rang Ida’s doorbell. “Come on in, Myrna. We’re ready to start.”

 

Ida led her to the dining room where two men and a woman sat at the round table draped in a multicolored cloth. Five unlit candles stood on saucers at the ready.

 

“This is my friend, Myrna,” Ida said to the others. She introduced them to Ida by their first names—Donna, Bob and Jake. She then pointed to an empty chair opposite hers. “Have a seat. We’re just about ready to start.”

Ida lit the candles, gave them out and then switched off the lights. Closing her eyes, she stretched out her hands toward the others. “Let’s join hands and call forth our dear departed.”

 

A few minutes passed as they concentrated on their breathing. Ida sat with her eyes closed, swaying slightly, already looking as if she was in a trance. “We’re waiting for Donna’s sister, Sally.” Her voice rose a pitch. “I feel a soft presence near me–a young woman.”

 

Myrna opened an eye a crack and saw Donna sit ramrod straight as Ida spoke.

 

“She says she’s happy and watches over her loved ones, but she must go.”

 

Silence reigned for a few moments before Ida spoke again. This time, her voice dropped an octave, and she spoke in a down-home accent. “I am here.”

 

“Who are you?” Ida sounded like herself.

 

“George. I have a message for Myrna.”

 

Myrna felt herself go stone cold, her fingers stiff. For a moment, she was too scared to speak. Then she turned to Ida. “What? You said George wouldn’t come through.”

 

Ida ignored Myrna’s comment. “I am troubled. I am here to get answers. Why did you kill me?”

 

“That’s a lie and you’re a fake!” Myrna sprang out of her chair. “I took care of you.” She slapped on the lights and Ida jolted out of her trance.

 

“What did George say?” Ida looked puzzled.

 

“Don’t you know? He said I killed him.”

 

“And did you?”

 

“Of course not. He was so ill he could have died any day.”

 

“That’s not true,” Ida said. “The day you sent me to get the prescription filled, the pharmacist was astonished that George took the same dosage when the doctor had lowered it. You see, he was getting better—not worse. And you knew it.”

A strained silence followed.

 

“You’re making it up,” Myrna screamed.

 

“Call the doctor tomorrow and ask him.” Ida moved toward her. “Do you know what made me suspicious?”

 

Myrna glared at her in answer.

 

“All the herb tea you kept giving him, even when he was over the cold he had. You dumped more digitalis into it than he needed. The doctor’s office can say how much he was supposed to take and the pharmacist will let Bob here, who’s a police officer, know how many times you went to have it filled, pretending you misplaced the bottle.”

 

Mryna’s shoulders slouched. “What’s the use? He would have been around forever and I would have been an unpaid maid all over again.”

 

Bob took over. “Officer McClellan, ma’am. I need to take you to the police station for questioning. If this is true, an autopsy would show digitalis.”

The End

“Why did I kill her?” Marshall W. Adams stroked the gray hairs on his chin, a stubble that had been forming over the past few days. He snickered. “Did you ask me why I killed her? Surely you jest…You really do know why, don’t you? Don’t you, De..tec..tive?”

 

Gavin did all he could to keep his tone level. “You heard me, you…If it were up to me I wouldn’t bother asking, but that’s our justice system. You tortured and murdered a ten-year-old, and I have to read you your rights.”

 

“Maybe I didn’t kill the little…er…girl. What if you’ve got the wrong man? What if I confessed because you tortured me De…tec..tive?”

 

I’d like to kill the bastard, Gavin thought. But that’s just what he’d like to see me try. He’s baiting me. Sharpening the hook. And he’s getting to me. Damn him.   Gavin retaliated by smiling in appreciation. “Touche,” he said, “but I know how well you understand the law, how the mind works.”

 

Adams leaned back in his chair. He whined.   “I need a shave.. I won’t release any information until I get a shave..   You can only hold me on suspicion of murder and felony kidnapping until I’m arraigned. I want to look good in the newspaper photo, not like an unshaven convict. After all, I’m related to the Adams who was president.’ He ran his fingers through the blondish military crew cut that made him look younger than his forty-seven years.

 

Psychotic schiz. Remember what you’ve been told. You’re dealing with a psychotic schiz. That’s how he got away with murder the first time. Gavin could smell his own perspiration running down the rolled-up sleeves of his limp shirt. Slowly, casually, as though they were discussing a television movie, he responded.   “You’ll look great when the cameras roll. But you’ll have to play fair with me.”

“Look here,” Adams whined, the steeliness in his blue eyes giving way to a softness that belonged to some unseen person, “I want a shave.”

 

“And I want to know why you murdered Carrie Shaw.”

 

“If I did, do you think I’d tell you? You think I’m some kind of dope?” Adams asked.   “Remember, I was an agent for the FBI.   I hold two advanced degrees from Harvard University in criminal law, and I am a member of the American Mensa Society.”

 

You’re a psychotic schiz. A murderer. That’s who you are, Gavin thought. Hostile, suspicious, delusions of remarkable talents, high social status, and power. Could Adams or the criteria for evaluating his condition have changed? Did it matter? “I know who you are,” he said. “It has all been confirmed.”

 

“That your little girl in the photo…De..tec..tive?”

 

Gavin placed both hands on his knees and pressed down on them to keep himself in the chair. His eyes moved to the family photo he had placed on top of the bookcase, the only personal item he kept in the office he shared with Detectives Joiner and Plorny. Gavin had tilted it toward his large cluttered mahogany desk. His daughter, Maria, had been about the same age as Carrie Shaw when a neighbor had taken the picture almost a year ago, in the circular driveway of their newly built pastel Florida ranch. Similar ranches wound their way around the gated community.   Maria stood between her parents.   Gavin had one arm around her and the other around his wife. Their Great Dane, Samson, sat next to them. “Last in the line-up,” they had joked.

 

Maria’s trusting eyes stared at Gavin from the phone but he didn’t see them.   Instead, Carrie Shaw’s brown eyes leaped before him, filling her pinched face with terror, her skin so milky-pale she looked sickly; gone the shy elfin smile, the little girl who rode her bike that day with his Maria.   To think it could have happened at all. Right on his own street where watchful mothers in shorts and tee shirts gathered in little groups while their children played in the street.

 

“Take a good look,” Gavin said. “You saw my daughter the same day you spotted Carrie Shaw, didn’t you?”

 

Adams dragged his words. “You want to trap me, De..tec..tive? You think I’d fall for anything as simple as that? Why do you think I turned myself in after I killed my mother? It was self -defense but they didn’t believe me. She had a gun but I shot her first. I am not a psychotic schiz.”

 

“Isn’t that why the editor-in-chief sent a reporter from that newspaper to interview you? He thought you might have been unjustly accused?”

“That snooping reporter posed as an FBI agent investigating terrorist claims I made in letters. I recognized him immediately. I am an expert in detecting spies. I can tell who they are because their voices have a tinny sound.   Pinnnng! Pinnnng!   You know I have incriminating evidence against them.   I have a twin who records voices on ultrasonic tapes. I could transpose them for you.”

 

“Thanks,” Gavin said, “but…it…”

 

“You don’t believe me, De..tec..tive? You are more of a fool than I thought. You must have the I.Q. of a flea. I told you and I know. They keep tabs on me. Like I said, I recognized him immediately.”

 

“Did you really?” Gavin leaned forward and asked in a confidential manner.

 

“I told you I know who they are. I know their chief. They’re after me. I’ve got those tapes. I’ve got something on them.”

 

“Then the reporter was really an F.B.I. agent.”

 

“Look,” Adams said, “ it was him or me. He threatened me with the death sentence. I learned how to open my handcuffs a long time ago but until this agent jerk showed up there was nothing I could do. So I followed him into the bathroom and smashed his head against the wall.”

 

Gavin kept his large frame immobilized. His back ached. “Really,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

 

“I heard ‘pinnnng, pinnnng, pinnnng, ’ coming from his head each time I smashed it.   I ordered my twin to record it.   When no more sounds came from him, I made sure none ever would. I choked him with his own tie.”

 

‘I still can’t figure this out,” Gavin said. “How did you escape?”

 

“Easy. I just switched clothes. No one in that loony bin ever comes when they hear screams anyway; they hear them all the time. So I called the guard to open the door. You know, if you act the part, people believe you. ‘Guard,’ I called. ‘I’ve finished interviewing Mr. Adams. Open the door, please. ‘ Then the agent’s beeper went off. You should have seen that guard hustle. ‘Have a good day,’ he called after me.”

 

“Then what?” Gavin asked, afraid to say more.

 

“Then I walked outside my residence and picked a flower from the garden. A beautiful yellow flower growing all over the lawn.   I snapped its stem. I like the sound of snapping…quick…poom…like a broken neck. But it was more fun snapping a stick my twin had left for me.   Then I put the flower in my buttonhole so people would know who I am. And…I’ll tell you what I found next. Two hundred dollars in that stupid agent’s wallet and a lot of loose change. It jingled in his pocket…I mean my pocket.”

 

“What did you do with it?”

 

“Took a bus.   It pulled up just as soon as I was standing there. Stopped right in front of the loony bin. The door opened. Ali Baba.   ‘Let me introduce myself,’ I said oh so gallantly to a middle-aged woman. Marshall Adams is the name. Kindly move your shopping bags and let me sit down.’ She not only moved her shopping bags but also got up and changed her seat.   I followed her to thank her.”

 

Gavin started to say something but changed his mind.

 

“The bus driver asked me to sit down and stop bothering the lady so I started talking to a young woman…real pretty…I wanted to touch her hair but she kept moving away from me.   ‘Leave me alone,’ she said, and that’s when the pinnnnginnnng started…so she didn’t fool me. She was taking notes on me…keeping tabs, you know. The words she wrote roared in my ears until I had to cover them but still they rang and rang. ‘Shut up, you shut up,’ I yelled at her but still she kept on writing, and the words snapped my eardrums and I yelled, and yelled,”Call the Supreme Court.”

 

“What did you think the Supreme Court could do?” Gavin asked.

 

“Reverse the decision. They always reverse the decision. Whoever I vote for president will pick new judges and they’ll change everything everyone else changed before them. But the bus driver told me I’d have to get off at the next stop or he’d call the police. So I got off the bus.”

 

“Did you know where you were?”

 

“Of course.” Adams replied. “ In a place where peace descended.   I could see large royal palms, and canals bordering a housing development. A high wall surrounded the community, tall hedges behind he wall, a great place to hide…but this is the best part…De,,tec..tive…the canal side had been left open.”

 

“How could you cross a canal?”

 

“Listen to me. Listen to me. Do you hear me? My flower is wilting…wilting.” With that, Adams plucked the dandelion from its buttonhole, and tore it to bits.

 

“I’m listening.” Gavin said.

 

“I walked across a space between the end of the canal and the street on the other side of it. I could see mothers sitting on bridge chairs in their own driveways, breast-feeding their babies while they watched their children play. My mother told me not to play in the street but these kids were riding their bikes in the street…screaming, yelling, making too much noise.”

 

“But…children…” Gavin hesitated. If ever he needed the right words, it was now.

 

“But,” Adams sneered. “But…this one little…er…girl…kept riding her bike around the cul-de-sac…away from her mother and those other brats. She was out of her mother’s sight when she rounded the corner.. She stopped pedaling when she saw me trying to find a way to cross the canal. She recognized me.”

 

“How would she know you?” Gavin asked.

 

“You really are stupid, De..tec..tive. She knew. I could tell by the way she stared at me. She stopped riding her bike and stare at me. I had to kill her before she told.”

 

“So you…”

 

“Kept on walking as though I belonged there. My twin transposed voices in my ear. Louder and louder the voices rang. When I reached the end of the cul-de-sac…you’ll think I don’t know what the word means but I do…it’s just that this cul-de-sac ended where it was open to the canal…they hadn’t put a house there…and she…the little…er…girl…was staring at me. But remember…De..tec..tive…I knew she really was a spy. You think you can fool me or my twin or my voices.”

 

“No.”   Gavin said, under his breath.

 

“You don’t say’no’ to me. That’s what the little girl said when I grabbed the handlebars and threw her to the ground. She opened her mouth to scream. ‘Mommy’ she sobbed in a stupid little voice. But I knew better. I heard ‘pinnnng, pinnnng. Pinnnng.’ I put my hands around her neck…poom…snap… and choked her until her face turned bluish-purple. Even hen her eyes protruded, thy were still staring at me.”

 

“I see,” Gavin said, in as steady a voice as he could muster, and a vision appeared to him of Maria as she became one with Carrie Shaw, while up and down the streets of America, little children rode their bicycles toward them.

The End

Henry waited for thirty-five minutes then drained the remainder of his whiskey and left a hefty tip for the waitress, money he would’ve mashed into Alisha’s hand for some trinket she always seemed to need.

 

Spring had taken winter by its toes and hurled it into the past. It had happened during Henry’s “business trip” to Spain, in Barcelona, where Alisha and he had munched olives and strolled the city’s bustling harbor.   They’d perched beneath a statue of Columbus in Del Rey Square, swilling watery Cervezas, pretending it was aged champagne. Champagne that mutated to arsenic when Alisha gave him the news.

 

Now petunias and daffodils piled in redwood boxes that lined the sidewalk courtyard of Bistro de Luc. Lunchtime clientele were dressed in suits of linen instead of wool.   Fifth Avenue cabbies honked and screeched their tires. Brisk air shoved against Henry’s chest, fragrant and rich with the vitality and drama of New York City’s eight million inhabitants.

 

Henry kept visualizing the room he’d reserved at the Plaza. The two hundred dollars a night cheap-rate room would situate Alisha and him in a closet-sized chamber at the end of a dark corridor on the hotel’s underbelly, overlooking pigeon-littered courtyards and crumbling brick facades. The perfect scene.

 

Jaywalking across a busy city avenue was a dangerous game, but danger satisfied Henry’s mood today. His limbs tingled as he entered the Plaza’s lobby. Alisha would have to locate him. She’d have to scurry around the bistro, then venture across the avenue, then search the Plaza’s lower floors, its eateries and shops, worried that Henry may have decided not to show.

 

Let her sweat. He’d agreed to her terms. What choice did he have? Now, she had to understand the concept of limits.

 

Rounding a corridor’s corner, he stuffed tense hands into his trouser pockets. Alisha stood in front of a mini-Tiffany’s ogling a bracelet with big, red stones.   He glanced in both directions then kissed the top of her head.

 

She’d shampooed with the lavender-scented product he picked up for her at Saks. Her wavy locks draped her shoulders like fine mink. She tipped up her chin and saucer-shaped eyes sucked him into their alluvial shadow. Taking his hand, she pressed it against her belly. Not much development yet. Her breasts behind the pink sleeveless blouse were still the size of small tangerines, her hips boyish in the baby blue capris.

 

“Hi Henry.” She stepped in close and toyed with his necktie. The giggle inferred the tie’s flower print amused her.   “Brooks Brothers?” she asked.

 

“Penney’s. You’re late,” he said.

 

“You know the club shuts down at four.” She ran a finger across his belt. “And usually I work overtime. Not for long, though, right?” Those big eyes drilled his face, searching for lies.

 

He snapped away, catching his reflection in a window facing Central Park. His tall, broad frame regenerated his confidence, and he told her, “Don’t worry.   Everything’s arranged.”

 

“Everything?” She fiddled with her hair.

 

“You know I want to please you.”

 

“I do?”

 

“I can’t help myself. Don’t always test me.”

 

She smiled, exposing little, sharp teeth.   “You’re so sweet.”

 

The impulse to crack a few of those teeth almost hijacked his arm. “Our room’s ready. Let’s go use it.”

 

“You’re always in such a hurry,” she said. “Did you eat without me?”

 

“I have a meeting in a couple of hours.”

 

“But I’m so hungry.”

 

“Me too. We can take care of it up in the room.” He grabbed her elbow.

 

She jerked away. “You’re more rushy today than usual. Is that because he’s upstairs?”

 

Henry’s stomach lurched. “He who?”

 

Alisha’s eyes twinkled. “The man with the knife.”

 

“Stop it,” Henry said. “And they don’t use knives. I already explained what’s going to happen. Later . . . at the clinic. Right now, come on. I’ll order champagne.”

 

Alisha sunk into a hip and folded her arms.   “You know I can’t drink.”

 

“I thought it wouldn’t matter any more,” Henry told her. “Besides, it didn’t stop you in Spain.”

 

“That was different.”

 

“How?”

 

“Alcohol isn’t harmful early in a pregnancy. It would be now.” One finger twined her hair. “I read a book.”

 

He forced a grin. “A girl like you reads?”

 

She shrugged and backpedaled toward the mini-Tiffany’s display, pulling him along. Her hips swayed, and her pink tongue tip protruded between her lips like a ripe nipple.

 

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, and yanked her to his chest.

 

She slipped her arms around his waist, her heat making his polyester blend shirt stick to his skin.

 

“Bracelet first,” she spelled out. “Then I make you feel young again, then you give me my other present, then you drive me to the doctor . . . and wait for me like you promised.”

 

He swiped back salt-and-pepper hair men his age would mortgage their houses to possess. He knew the hair made the creases across his forehead and down his cheeks appear manly instead of old. He brushed his hair again, using the asset.

 

It must’ve worked because she abandoned the bracelet idea and walked toward the elevator, spine pulled erect, both hands propped on her hips, practicing her courtroom litigator strut.

 

“Come on, baby,” she said, holding the open elevator door. “Is there a nice view?”

 

He strolled forward, giving her the up-and-down wolf look.

 

She reached out and tugged him into the elevator car by his necktie. “I meant the view from the window in our room. You’re so mean.”

 

They road to the second floor and walked along a dim corridor with floral carpet. Inside the room, Henry laid the money he’d promised on the dresser.

 

She kissed his cheek, then headed for the bathroom, ooo-ing at the assortment of bath oils and body lotions arranged on the vanity’s faux-marble counter.

 

He took off his shoes and sat on the bed.   Imagining. He’d begin with a pillow over her face. At first, she’d wriggle and think it was fun. He’d hold it firmly. Then she’d kick her legs and pound his back with her fists, but he had enough brawn to take the abuse. She’d probably try to knee-punch his groin, but he’d press his pelvis against hers, protecting his vulnerable spot. Her muffled screams wouldn’t last long; they would speed the process in fact, lessening the suffocation time from two minutes to one. He’d feel the strain of her muscles seizing, her lungs unable to suck in air. Finally, she’d gurgle a last breath. Then she’d stop fighting.

 

When he removed the pillow, her bugging eyes frozen in an expression of terror and surprise would thrill him. The tongue bulging from the corner of her mouth would remind him of a cartoon character just popped over the head with an anvil.   Usually, within the first hour their skin turned purplish, lips and fingernails pale, skin waxy, almost translucent. Often he stayed that long, while he wiped his fingerprints from the few items he’d touched and added assorted hairs and fiber to the crime scene to waste the police lab’s time. He always used a stolen credit card to pay for the room and avoided dress and behavior that a passerby might remember. Afterward, he enjoyed alone time with his girls—finally quiet and submissive.

 

The toilet flushed, and Alisha slinked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a terrycloth robe. The .38 caliber Beretta, a petite pistol, looked big in her hand.

 

She said, “You think I’m stupid,” and leveled the muzzle in his direction.

 

Henry’s chest gripped with shock. Adrenaline kicked on, making his hands shake. Who was this Alisha? What kind of con was she trying to pull? What the hell was going on? He stared at the pistol and considered a lunge forward, but her expression, aged from twenty years to forty in the span of a bubble bath, her posture, transformed from willowy and vulnerable to solid and tough, inhibited his action.

 

Sweat oozed down his back. “How can a girl with so many books in her apartment be stupid?” he said. His smile felt as supple as a blown-out tire. “Where did you get that gun?”

 

She snapped the mechanism that chambered a bullet.   “How do you think I paid for all those books?” Her voice savvy and cold. “Working at the club barely covers my rent.”

 

His stomach muscles felt like rocks. “I paid for some of them, didn’t I?”

 

“You’re so naïve.” Now she picked up a pillow and positioned it in front of the pistol’s muzzle. “I’m taking your money, and I’m having this baby, and I’m going to law school, and you’re out of the picture. Get it?”

 

“Sure sweetie, but—”

 

“Baby, I’m not sweet.”

 

“Alisha.” He raised his hands, palms out. “You want to have the baby, okay, all right. I thought you didn’t care. You said a kid would stand in the way of your career.”

 

“You said that.”

“Okay. But I thought—”

 

“You thought you could get rid of me.”

 

He froze, heel thumping the carpet, worried about how she knew, and if she planned to use the gun, or maybe this scene was just another one of her games.   “Why are you talking like this?”

 

A smile played at her mouth corners. “I know who you are.”

 

“Yeah? Who am I?”   Clammy palms closed into fists.

 

“I knew in Barcelona,” she said, watching his hands. “You took them all to Barcelona. The waitress at the railway station recognized you. When you left to load our bags on the train, she told me all about your girls. She warned me. That’s when I made up my mind about the baby . . . and about you. What to do with a sick, arrogant bastard who knocks girls up.”   She trained the pillow-silenced pistol at his forehead. “Then disposes of them like used condoms. You should’ve used one.”

 

Like an amateur, he raised his arms to cover his face.

 

She emptied the clip into his chest like a professional.

The End

Tawney Markham and Wendy Landau towered over the unconscious body of their employer, Merriam Dayton, lying sprawled on the parlor floor.

 

“What do we do now, Tawney? Do we kill her?” Wendy asked, still clutching the glass paperweight, her knuckles white.

 

“Nah.   We don’t want to add murder to our burglary rap. Once we collect the rest of her jewels and loose money, we’re on to the next state.   Man! Why wasn’t she at her garden club meeting? She wasn’t supposed to be home.”

 

“Well, it’s too late to turn back now. ”

 

“Okay.   You check out the safe behind the Van Gogh painting and I’ll get the rest of her ice from her dresser drawers.”   Tawney checked her watch. “Better hurry. Pete will be back soon from driving Merriam’s daughter to the airport.   We need to be long gone with the goods.”

“What about the painting? Shouldn’t we take that too?”

 

“Nah, it’s too big to fit into my car and I don’t think Big Earl’s into art. He prefers jewelry.”

 

Wendy nodded, setting the paperweight down and hurried to the huge painting. She’d watched Merriam spin the tumblers many times and knew the combination, but she had to wait until this most opportune moment to take everything.

 

Bing bong

 

Tawney froze on the staircase, carrying a tote bag filled with money and jewelry.   Wendy dropped two boxes containing priceless gems on the floor.

 

“What do we do now?” Wendy mouthed barely above a whisper. “Merriam wasn’t expecting anybody today. That’s why we had the day off.”

 

“Put everything in the bag and we’ll put her into the hall closet.” Both women easily laid their employer on the huge cubicle’s floor. Wendy tossed in the tote bag.

 

“Now, follow my lead.”

 

Tawney plastered on a smile and walked to the front door with Wendy two steps behind.

 

Standing on the spacious porch was three women and two men.

 

“May we help you?”

 

“Hello, miss. We’re from Merriam’s garden club,” the lady in the bright orange dress said. “She’s hosting a dinner party tonight.”

 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there must be some mistake. The servants are all off today…”

 

“Nonsense, child.” The lady clicked her tongue. “Merriam called me less than an hour ago, reminding me. Now, stand aside and let us in.”

 

The small group brushed past the two astounded thieves.

 

“Let Merriam know that we’re ready to start the game.”

 

“Game?!”   Tawney and Wendy exclaimed.

 

“Yes, a murder/mystery game. Merriam said she’d heard about these games played in people’s homes and she thought it would be exciting for her to host one. When she called me earlier, she said that she had planned a crime and we’re supposed to solve it, then we’ll celebrate with a victory dinner.”

 

The thieves exchanged glances.

 

“Tawney, we can’t let them find Merriam,” Wendy whispered furiously. “We’ve got to get rid of these busybodies.”

 

“Allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is Harriet Winslow. This is Jeanne Rogers, Mary Wickers, Harry Bennett, and Albert Stevens. And you two are…?”

 

“Her nieces.” Tawney stepped forward with a tight smile. “I’m sorry, but there seems to be a mistake. My aunt left earlier for a vacation in Paris. She won’t be back for two weeks. She must have forgotten about this dinner party. She can be quiet forgetful.”

 

“Maybe we should just leave and call her in two weeks and try this again.” Harry turned towards the door. Jeanne and Mary followed suit.

 

“That’s odd.” Albert pointed into the parlor. “Seems somebody left the safe open.” He strutted over for a closer look. “It’s empty!”

 

“And how would you know, Albert? Have you been here before?” Harriet came to a stop by his side.

 

“Well…no, but Merriam mentioned before that her husband had given her numerous priceless jewels. I just supposed that they were kept in here. Guess I’ve been watching too many crime shows.”

 

“Maybe this is the crime that Merriam started for us to solve,” Jeanne cried.   She whipped out her notebook and pen.   “Oh, who has that fingerprint kit?   And where’s the camera? Must photograph everything. That’s what they always do on television.”

 

“Here’s the kit. I’ll dust the tumbler.” Harry stepped forward, opening his container of powder, spilling it onto the coffee table and it’s knickknacks. “Oops.   Got a little carried away.”

 

“I’ll check the doors and windows for forced entry.” Mary scurried away to the front door.

 

“I’ll take pictures.” Harriet produced a camera and snapped away. Tawney and Wendy squinted with the flashing lights.

 

“I guess that leaves Jeanne and I to question the suspects.” Albert clicked his polished shoes together. “Jeanne, take notes of my questions and their responses, including body language. Mustn’t overlook anything you know.”

 

“Stop!”   Tawney shouted, waving her arms.   “What are you people doing? There is no crime. Merriam just sometimes forgets to close the safe,” she said, thinking on her feet. “She placed her jewels in a safety deposit box yesterday and she probably forgot to close it. So, people, please go home.”

 

“No crime?   Then how do you explain these large fingerprints all over the dial of the safe?” Harry held out a piece of scotch tape covered in powder and prints. “And how do you explain the same large fingerprints over this glass paperweight and there’s none on the other objects on this table? Bad cleaning?”

 

“Eeeeekkk!”

 

“Now what?!” Tawney exclaimed. She glanced at a confused Wendy who shrugged. The little troop followed the scream into the hallway.

 

“What is it Mary?” Harriet trotted to the open closet door, joining her comrade.

“I…I…I thought this was a door not a closet, and I found this.”

 

Harriet gasped, but quickly composed herself to squat down and check Merriam’s body for a pulse.

“Hmmm…missing jewelry, fingerprints that are too big to be Merriam’s over the assault weapon and the safe, and an unconscious body.   The only suspects are two jumpy young women, claiming to be nieces, and also a bag full of jewels. Surely Merriam didn’t steal her own jewels and clonk herself on the head.”

 

Harriet stood to face her comrades and the two wide-eyed criminals.

 

“Albert, please call the police and an ambulance. The rest of you, keep an eye on these two young women.”

 

An hour later after Merriam regained conscious with the help of the paramedics, she gave her statement to the police.

 

“Merriam,” Harriet said, “the game’s over, but I must admit that I’m very disappointed. This crime was way too easy.”

 

Merriam chuckled.

 

“Well, don’t blame me. Those bungling maids of mine were stupid criminals. They were too easy for me to notice their pilfering. I wasn’t sure which of my servants were guilty, but I’d hoped that with the groups help that we’d collect enough evidence to discover the culprit and have them arrested. I just hadn’t planned on them acting out their final crime before the game started. I’m glad you came when you did.   You have all earned your dinner and my eternal thanks.”

 

Harriet hugged her friend.

 

“It’s all in a day’s work.”

The End

Accident

Life was beautiful until I witnessed an accident.

It was Friday noon and I downed the shutters of my small textile shop for lunch. I got into my bicycle and pedaled it towards my home located in a small village, three kilometers away from this sparsely populated city extension. The sun was very hot and the street wore a deserted look.

Agriculture was my family business. But as my village was near to a very large city in southern India, the real estate people were fast invading and soon it would be divided into plots and sold to city people who would build houses getting loans from banks and Government. Agriculture became very tough since there was acute water scarcity. Ponds and wells were dried, as there was no rainfall. So I switched to textile business to survive.

I cut into the muddy road that led to the village and when I was half way through it, a Honda motorbike whizzed past me leaving a trail of red sand behind it. “Bastard.” I muttered aloud. “Only fools would ride in a such a speed in a village road.”

As if to comply with the Newton’s third law, I saw a black color Ford Ikon car coming in the opposite direction at high speed and creating waves of red sands around it.

 

Then it happened.

CRASH!

 

The motorbike hit the car and the impact catapulted the biker upwards in the air. He traversed downwards after a second and fell on a roadside bush. I pedaled faster and reached the spot. I jumped down from the bicycle and letting it fall, I ran towards the bush. The driver of the car, spectacled, middle aged and clad in safari suit was already standing there. The guy in the bush, slim and in his late twenties was writhing in pain. We tried to get him up.

But he couldn’t put his feet on the ground and cried aloud. “I think I’ve broken my leg.” He started to weep. “Don’t worry. Soon you’ll recover.” I consoled him and we carried him to the car. We made him lie in the back seat and I occupied the front and the gentleman started the car.

He drove the car to the main street and stopped before a clinic. I ran inside and informed the reception and few minutes later attendees with a stretcher emerged and carried the patient inside.

When the doctor knew it was an accident, he called the police. The police officer came after twenty minutes and the gentleman who drove the car detailed him the accident and the officer noted it all. They made me to sign in the statement and after that the gentleman said, “ Okay sir. Thanks for your help. I’ll take care of this guy. You carry on with your work.” I was relieved and I got out of the hospital. I walked back to the spot, got into my bicycle and reached my home.

Poison (My wife, she got that name because of her acidic tongue.) was engrossed on a movie in the television and didn’t even notice my late arrival. I recited my adventure while she served lunch. She listened half-heartedly and then said that the bathroom pipe was leaking and the upstairs room needed renovation indirectly hinting “ You never think about your home but like to help guys hit by car.”

I didn’t want to start a war and I went to my room to take a nap. Women! They always complain.

I almost forgot about the accident and I was busy selling garments as festival season was fast approaching.

**********************************

Next week, as I pedaled my bicycle on the muddy road, I saw this Ford car coming in the opposite direction. I didn’t think it odd at the time. There were so many black Ford cars. Then I heard the sound of a motorbike…

What the fuck!

And seconds after the Honda motorbike raced past me.

CRASH!

It hit the car like it did last week and he was thrown in the air and fell on the roadside bush.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. No. It couldn’t be. Something was wrong somewhere.

I pedaled the cycle faster and there the driver of the car was standing near the bush. He was exactly the same guy I saw last week. I got down from the bicycle and ran to the bush. The cycle, not put on its stand, fell behind me. I looked into the bush. Yes. The victim was also the same person. I turned to the gentleman.

“Sir. I think I saw you in the same situation last week.”

He looked confused.

“I don’t understand. We never met before.”

“An accident exactly like this happened last week. This same motorbike hit your car last week and we admitted a guy exactly like this one in the hospital. Have you forgotten?”

“Sorry. I think you’re in a great confusion. Let’s help this guy. He needs immediate medical attention.”

We helped him to get up. But he couldn’t put his feet on the ground and cried as exactly as last week. “I think I’ve broken my leg.” Automatically words came out of my lips.
“Don’t worry. You‘ll soon recover.”

We carried him to the car, we made him lie in the back seat, we stopped before the clinic, I rushed inside, attendees came with the stretcher and when the doctor phoned the police, I intervened. “Doctor. Don’t you remember treating a guy exactly like this one last week?
I think things are repeating.” The doctor looked at me quizzically as if I was a specimen.
The gentleman said. “He’s confused. Don’t take him seriously.”

When the police arrived, I said I witnessed the accident for the second time. The officer gave a rude look and the gentleman took me aside from the officer’s gaze and thanked me for my help.

I reached home in utter confusion and told everything to Poison.

“I always warned you to wear a cap when coming home for lunch. You never listen to me.”

“What has a cap to do with this?”

“It saves your head from the hot sun. It’s the heat that made you to hallucinate.”

“No. It’s not hallucination.”

“Then it meant you use drugs.”

“No drugs.”

“My father always imagine things when he consumes alcohol.”

“Don’t compare me with your father. He’s such a fool.”

“Don’t say anything about my family. You’re a fool. Your father is a..”

I went to my room and shut the door. ‘I’m not in the mood for a fight.’ I became restless. I knew it was serious. I planned to consult a doctor. I phoned a doctor in the city and got the appointment.

****************************************

 

I didn’t open the shop in the evening and went to meet the doctor. Poison was still in the angry mood and I didn’t tell her that I was going to meet the doctor. I bicycled through the muddy road to go to the main street to catch the bus to the city. The bike was not there at the accident spot. The police would have removed it.

The doctor asked me a string of questions about my food habits, previous health problems, bowel movement, sleep and dreams and finally said I had to take a scan of my brain. Scan? “There may be blocks in your nerves and it may make you imagine things.” He said.

I didn’t believe it and went to meet a Psychiatrist in the same hospital.

He asked me “How often you have sex with your wife?”

“I don’t want to answer this question.”

“Don’t mistake me young man. Sex. Every thing originates from sex. If you have good sex, nothing matters, life goes smooth. Sexual frustration is the basis for every problem. It may make you imagine things.”

“My sex life is good.”

I got out of the room angrily. No. It was not sexual frustration.

I reached home. A large crowd was waiting for me there, my father, mother, sisters, brothers, cousins, in-laws and friends. They all looked at me with sorrowful eyes as though I was having some incurable disease. My mother started crying. So Poison has spread the news. I looked at them and said curtly. “I consulted the doctor and he said I was okay and everything was normal. What I need is, a good sleep and little rest.”

Next day I didn’t open the shop and went to meet a Private Investigator in the city. I detailed him my problem and he noted down the car number, bike number, hospital name and everything I told. I felt confident and returned to my village. I opened the shop in the evening. Sunday was a Holiday. I spent the whole day watching Television. Poison was busy preparing non-veg foods for the crowd in the household. They doubted my words and decided to stay in my house and watch my behavior. Poison always loved to have lot of crowds in the house. Monday morning the crowd cleared and they all believed I was normal. I decided to open the shop late and went to meet the Private Investigator. He threw a bombshell and said that the accident occurred only once. He spoke to everyone involved in the accident and they were all speaking truth. He continued that I was having some extra power like ESP. I was confused. Could this be true? He said that it would happen to one in a million.

I decided to concentrate on my routine work. ‘If I have ESP power, it’s good. I’ll become famous and make more money.’ But something in my mind is still unsettling. I felt a nag, a disturbance, a bug, and incompleteness. One of my friends came with a parallel universe theory. No. I didn’t buy it.

Ten days afterwards, I read a news item in the paper and it got the hell out of me.

The motorcyclist who hit the car was dead. He died of grievous head injuries. Further it said he was a motorbike racer and won many medals in bike racing.

So he was dead.

I became restless. It was like a migraine. It slowly arose, spread and completely filled my mind. “Something is wrong, something is wrong, go out and find it.” I couldn’t concentrate on my work. I closed the shop and returned home. I told Poison that I was having headache and swallowed sleeping bills and went to bed.

********************************************

 

I woke up in the evening and saw Poison trying out new dresses. She said she was going to attend a discourse by a saint in the temple. She invited me to join. I planned to go with her. May be it would give a relief from my tension.

The temple was crowded and saint was looking very pleasant and genial. He had some kind of charm in him and I instantly liked him. His eyes were sparkling and he started his discourse on ancient Gods and Goddess. I was hypnotized by his voice and he finished a story with a line “Every tough problem has a simple solution.”

I didn’t know what made me to stand up and tell, “No. Sir. There are many unsolvable problems.”

Poison tugged my shirt and said, “Don’t argue with saints.”

The whole crowd looked at my direction.

“Do you have any unsolvable problems?” he asked.

I told my story in detail.

“You’re telling the truth?”

“Yes. Sir.”

“Then it meant they’re lying.”

I sat down and it set me thinking. “They’re lying. Why?”

 

When we returned home, we got a visitor. Poison’s brother was waiting for us there. He got the key from our neighbor, opened the house, prepared and ate dinner and resting in the guest room. He was working in Microsoft’s branch in India as a system analyst. Poison had invited him to select a bride from a list she got from a marriage bureau.

 

Something flashed in my mind when I saw him.

 

I noted the receptionist entering the accident details in the computer. If the accident occurred two times, she would have entered it two times and deleted one entry.

 

I asked my brother in law.

 

“Can you recover a deleted entry from a computer?”

 

“Yeah. There is a software for it.”

 

Before I could recite my problem, he stopped me.

 

“Sister had told me everything.”

 

Then I detailed my plan.

 

He was shrewd and carried out the plan next day. He went to the hospital, met the computer in charge, said that he got a recent version of virus protection software and wanted to test it in their computers.   When he was granted permission, he sat before the computers and recovered all the deleted files and copied it into a CD.

 

He returned home, inserted the CD and showed all the files in his laptop.

 

Yes. It was there. The data entry of the first accident deleted from the data base.

 

Then they had also deleted a letter they wrote to the insurance company.

 

*****************************************

 

Next day I stopped my bicycle as I saw the Ford Ikon parked few yards away from the accident spot. The middle- aged guy got down from the car and walked towards me. He was carrying a small brief case.

 

“Hey. I’m Vasavan.”

 

He shook hands with me and gave me the brief case.

 

“It contains one lakh rupees.”

 

“Okay. As promised you should give me another five after you received the full amount.”

 

“Yeah. You are the key witness and everything depends on what you tell before the Judge. I made a mistake. If I convinced you at the first time, I wouldn’t have to give that private investigator a share.”

 

“He lied that I got a ESP power.” I laughed and continued, “Now, I became the partner in the crime. I need more details.”

 

“It’s a very big operation. I started my life as a motor mechanic and when my wife died in a road accident, a lawyer got me a huge amount as compensation by forging documents. I learned how to cheat insurance companies from that accident. Then I start to fake road accidents and claim huge amount from insurance companies. I bribe doctors and police officers to issue fake certificates. I use different cars, different cities and different victims. I earned lot of money and I fell in love with this beautiful woman, wife of a bike racer. He loved her deeply and divorce was tough. We planned to kill him. We said he should act as a victim in the fake accident and he would get money for that. We included him in the set up, as he was a bike racer, he jumped before the bike hit the car and fell exactly in the bush without hurting himself. We killed the racer in the hospital and bribed the doctors to certify that he died of head injuries caused by road accident. The police officer endorsed it and we asked a claim of 40 lakh rupees(4 million).”

 

“But not all the police officers are dishonest,” said a police officer emerging from the bush. A magistrate and an Insurance Company official with a video camera accompanied him.

 

Vasavan tried to run away towards the car but the police officer grabbed him, pinned his arms and handcuffed him.

 

I called insurance companies, told the car number and asked them whether they had insured that vehicle. The fourth company said yes and I told them that I had witnessed the accident twice.

 

They checked the records and found that they had insured the vehicle two days previous to the first accident but it was cancelled as the bank dishonored the cheque they presented to the Insurance Company. They didn’t have sufficient money in the bank.

 

They faked the accident but it had gone waste as the insurance was cancelled. Now they had to fake another accident but I barged in unexpectedly and they had to behave as if it was happening for the first time.

 

I explained the set up to the insurance company and they asked my cooperation to catch the culprits.

 

Poison was very happy when she saw my photograph and my story in the front page of newspapers next day.

The End

When I saw Jimmy Farris driving by in a BMW I knew it would be stolen

When I saw Jimmy Farris driving by in a BMW I knew it would be stolen. I was off duty and in my own car so I didn’t pull him over straightaway. I should have phoned it in, but instead I tailed him for a while. When he stopped at a set of traffic lights I pulled up alongside.

 

I sounded my horn. He gave a start, then quickly turned to see who it was. He recognised me straight off and his eyes went wide. I smiled at him and made a motion to pull over after the lights. He nodded then stared straight ahead, waiting for the lights to change.

 

The lights changed and he pulled away slowly. I waited for the cars behind him to go past then pulled over behind him. He would be sweating now, wondering how to handle it. Jimmy had so many convictions, any more trouble and he’d go down hard for it. I decided to let the tension build and pulled out my mobile. I called up Tommy.

 

“Hey Tommy it’s Banich. That situation you were talking about still possible?” I asked. “I might have somebody lined up for it.”

 

“You reckon?” he replied. “Who you got in mind for it? How you gonna work it?”

 

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “Just set it up and tell me where to find it.”

 

“It’s been out back of the Marigold restaurant all day,” he said. “Just waiting for you. You know where the Marigold is?”

 

“I know it,” I said. “There’s nothing definite yet but I’m gonna try it. I’ll call you if it happens.” I ended the call and got out of the car. I walked slowly over to where Jimmy sat behind the wheel, probably scared to death by now.

 

Jimmy Farris was a good-natured guy really. A long record, but nothing for violence. I still put my hand on my gun as I walked up on his blindside though. He wasn’t normally any trouble, but he might have reached the point where he’d do something desperate. It was best to be careful.

“Keep your hands on the wheel Jimmy,” I said. “Keep them up where I can see them.” I edged forward. I glanced in. He was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. I opened the door. “Get out of the car Jimmy,” I said.

 

Slowly he got out trying not to shake. It was now time to start messing with his mind.

 

“Nice car Jimmy,” I said, looking it over.

 

He looked at me suspiciously. I was just one more cop playing with him, but he had no choice but to play along. “Thanks,” he said finally. “I like it.”

 

“Where did you steal it,” I asked casually.

 

“I didn’t,” he said lamely. “A friend lent it to me.”

 

I didn’t even bother to acknowledge that. “You steal it just for a ride, or you gonna take it somewhere and strip it down later?”

 

“I..” he started.

 

“Don’t bother,” I said interrupting him. “All I need to do is call it in. They take you away and you don’t see sunlight for a while. It’s not looking good is it?”

 

Jimmy stared down at the road and looked as if he was about to cry.

 

I held the moment, then said “I like you Jimmy so I’m gonna give you a way out.” Suddenly his head was up and he was staring at me. “I think its time to change things,” I said, “get things working a different way. Get in my car,” I said. “We’re going somewhere.” I walked back to the car and watched him as he followed me.

 

“Not the back,” I said. “Sit up front.”

 

He looked at me strangely. He knew something was happening but he didn’t know what. “You ain’t gonna cuff me either?” he asked.

 

“Not if you play your cards right,” I said. “If this works out right we’ll leave your car here and let the traffic guys find it. Of course if things don’t work out..”

I started the car and drove off. After telling him all that I didn’t say a word, trying to keep him confused. Jimmy was dying to ask me what was going on, but he was trying to keep him cool now that he knew he wasn’t being arrested.

We pulled up by the Marigold restaurant, and then drove into the car park at the back.

“See that gold Merc,” I said.

 

“Yeah what about it?” he asked.

 

“I want you to steal it.”

 

He looked at me incredulously. “You what?”

 

“I want it stolen,” I said. “It belongs to a fence who works around here. He’s been getting away with it now for way too long. We’ve come to the conclusion we ain’t ever gonna get him, so we’ve decided to try it our own way. We’ve got somebody lined up to break into his house. And now your job is to steal his car.”

 

“What do want me to do with it when I’ve stolen it?” he asked.

 

“Strip it, trash it, burn it. I don’t care. Just make sure he doesn’t get it back.”

 

He continued to stare at me. “What if I get caught while I’m doing it?” he asked.

 

“You’re on your own and we never met. Of course we can always go back and arrest you for the Beamer. I’m giving you a chance Jimmy,” I said. “You gonna take it?”

 

“I’ll do it,” he said. He quickly got out of the car and walked over to the Merc without looking back. I left him there and drove away. I was about two blocks away when I heard the explosion. I called Tommy again.

 

“I heard it,” he said. “I’ll settle up with you later. Well done.”

 

“Reckon it’ll work?” I asked.

 

“It will ‘till nobody comes forward for the money,” he said. “Maybe then they’ll realise it wasn’t him in the car. But by then he’ll have had two days to start running. Speak to you later,” he said, and ended the call.

The End

“Wonder why they always do it in the middle of the night” asked Leland Harris.

 

“I think it’s cause they don’t want the other inmates getting’ riled up and causing problems” responded James Stokes as he pulled off the white barber’s jacket to reveal his white shirt and dark tie underneath.

 

Samuel Washington just listened to his colleagues and kept sweeping up the hair he had cut from his last customer of the day. He kept private the feelings he experienced knowing Edgar Moore would be sitting in Central Prison’s electric chair in less than eight hours. But he was one of the few in Lawrenceville who wasn’t talking. Even though they hadn’t discussed it in front of their white customers, now that it was just the three black men cleaning the barbershop, even Leland and James were expressing their opinions. But among the clientele, it had been the main topic of conversation throughout the day—a chilly October day. But the entire autumn of 1922 had been colder than normal thus far.

 

Everyone knew Moore’s story. Last spring, a jury of his peers had convicted him of the murder of his brother-in-law, Ransom Toler. Moore had worked for Toler for several years before the store owner was found one Saturday morning, lying in the storage room of Toler’s General Merchandise in a pool of his own blood. His head had been smashed in, presumably with the pipe wrench found lying beside him.

 

The victim had been a prominent, if not popular, businessman, owning one of Lawrenceville’s two general stores. But Ransom Toler was not the most pleasant of men. He had a violent temper, which often led to physical aggression. Sam had heard numerous stories of Toler tongue-lashing those who crossed his path. And on occasion, he had been known to physically throw them out of the store. This behavior was particularly prevalent in dealing with “coloreds,” as the more polite southerners called them.

 

The murder scene that Saturday morning initially pointed to a botched robbery. The heavy green wooden door opening to the back alley was splintered, and the cash register was empty. Edgar Moore told Chief Daughtry he had left the store at 6:00 p.m. the night before. He stated that Toler had told him he would be working late, as Maggie, his wife, was visiting her aunt in Greensboro. Maggie normally kept the books. But since she had been gone for several days, he needed to work late to catch them up. Moore said he had locked the front door, and gone out the back. He had not locked the alley door, as Toler normally took care of that task.

 

Moore’s story quickly fell apart. While searching the store for clues, Chief Daughtry had found the object used to pry open the back door—a shiny new crowbar. The streaks of green paint, and the indentions on the door and frame, which perfectly matched the crowbar, left little doubt. However, it was in an unusual location—a storage bin with several other new crowbars just like it. What was the likelihood that someone had broken in from the alley using a new crowbar just like the ones sold in the store, and then left it in the bin?

And then there was the matter of the money. Chief Daughtry knew from earlier conversations with Ransom Toler, that it was his practice to count the day’s receipts as soon as the store closed, and to immediately lock them in the safe for deposit on the next banking day. But that morning, the safe door was ajar, as it was during the day. No money was in the safe or in the cash register. Knowing Toler’s demeanor, he found it highly unlikely that money would have been left unsecured, or that Toler would have opened the safe for a burglar.

 

Acting on these pieces of evidence, and a conversation he had overheard in a local business, Chief Daughtry obtained a warrant to search the small clapboard house Edgar Moore called home. That search turned up a coffee can with almost four hundred dollars in cash. Stored in a rundown shed behind the house, some of the bills were stained with blood.

 

Despite Moore’s protestations of innocence, he was arrested and tried for first-degree murder. The jury was convinced by the crowbar, the bloody money, and the testimony of a man who told his story of walking down the alley behind Toler’s General Merchandise that Friday evening. The dark-skinned man spoke barely above a whisper as he told of walking past the green wooden door, which was slightly ajar. He told of hearing an angry Ransom Toler threaten an unknown individual with imprisonment for stealing from him. The witness stated that Toler yelled “With all I’ve done for you, you steal from me. I’ll see you rot in the county jail.” Although the quiet man on the witness stand did not see the other party, everyone on the jury, and in the courtroom, assumed it to be Edgar Moore.

 

The prosecutor’s closing argument was quite persuasive. He painted the picture of an embittered Edgar Moore spending fifteen years working in the shadow of his wife’s successful brother. Moore’s bitter frustrations had led him to take money from the register until he was caught by Toler. An argument ensued. Moore lashed out in anger with the first thing he touched—a pipe wrench in the back room. Panicking, he staged the scene to look like a robbery before sneaking home.

 

The deliberations lasted just over an hour before the jury returned with a verdict of “guilty.”

 

“Sam, you ain’t saying much. ‘Specially since you helped put Mr. Edgar in that chair” Leland Harris said to his colleague.

 

Washington just shook his head as he looked at the three barber chairs lined up in front of ornately mounted mirrors. He thought back to that Saturday morning, before Toler’s body had been discovered. Chief Daughtry had been sitting in James Stokes’ chair, in the far rear of the shop, as he did every Saturday morning, waiting for his shave and trim. Sam had been running a few minutes late that morning, and was putting on his jacket in the back room when Leland Harris had stepped back to get a bottle of tonic.

“You ought to have heard the fuss going on next door yesterday evening,” Sam had said. “I was walking through the alley on my way home, and Mr. Ransom was laying into somebody for taking money from him. He was mad, and yelling like all git-out.”

 

Sam spoke as if oblivious to Chief Daughtry’s presence outside the storage room door. He knew better than talk about a prominent white citizen that way in public. He had learned that in his four years in Lawrenceville.

 

Sam had been perfectly happy living with his family in New Jersey. But when America had entered the war in Europe, he had done his duty and joined the army in hopes of fighting with Gen. Pershing’s troops in “The Great War.” However, his dreams of bearing arms for his country were soon dashed as he learned that a black man in the army was more likely to serve as manual labor. He had been shipped to North Carolina to help clear brush and trees for a new army camp known as Camp Bragg, near Fayetteville.

 

Sam never got near the fighting in Europe. But he did get near a local girl named Ella Smith. He’d gotten so close that when the war ended, he decided to stay in North Carolina with his new bride. Luckily, the local barbershop was looking for a barber. Sam had learned the trade from his uncle in Jersey. He was happy to have a job that didn’t require him to spend his days in the cotton or tobacco fields of Stuart County. But one downside was working in the building right beside an unpleasant character like Ransom Toler. The low point of that circumstance had come just over two years ago with the loss of his best friend, Emmett Walker.

 

Emmett had grown up in Cleveland, Ohio. As bunkmates at Camp Bragg, he and Sam had become as close as brothers. After their discharge, Sam had encouraged Emmett to come and live with him and his new bride until Walker could get on his feet. He had no real family in Ohio, and no skills to get a good job. But through Ella’s family, Sam found him a job working as a farm laborer. After a few months of working, the man had saved enough money to rent a room of his own, and was doing well for a black man with no education.

 

On that fateful day, Emmett had gone to Toler’s to pick up chicken wire to repair a fence. The story was told that while standing at the register to pay, he commented to the white lady behind the register regarding the flowery dress she was wearing. “You sure look good in that dress,” he had said. Emmett told Sam that afternoon that he had meant no disrespect, but was just being friendly. However, Emmett Walker had been friendly with the wrong white lady. This one was Ransom Toler’s wife, Maggie.

 

“Boy, who do you think you are? And what kind of woman do you think I am?” she had yelled at him. Emmett’s attempts at an apology were met with more anger, so he left and went back to the farm. Late that afternoon he had gone to Sam’s house and asked for advice.

 

“The best thing here is that Mr. Ransom wasn’t in the store. If he was, you might not be talking to me right now” Sam told him. “Just lay low tonight, and I’ll go by and see him first thing in the morning.” Although Sam knew Toler to be a bigot with a hot temper, he had maintained a civil relationship with him over the years. The storeowner came into the barbershop every other week for a haircut and a shave. He said that even though he shaved himself every day, lying back in a chair to be shaved was a luxury he enjoyed. Sam found it amusing that the man who openly disliked “coloreds” was so quick to relax while a dark-skinned barber held a razor to his throat.

 

Sam never got a chance to have that talk with Toler. Early the next morning, a knock on his door led to his accompanying a local constable to a cotton field just outside the city limits. There, a white sheet was pulled back to reveal the severely beaten body of Emmett Walker. Sam was asked to identify the body, which had been found by the field’s owner just after sunup.

 

There was no doubt in Sam’s mind who was responsible for his friend’s death, and he told his story to the constable.

 

“You better be careful what you’re saying, boy. Talk about an upstanding businessman like that and you could end up like your friend.”

 

A few days later, Sam was emboldened again after listening in on a whispered barbershop conversation between Edgar Moore and a farmer from the south side of town. As they sat on the wooden bench waiting to be served, they did not realize Sam was in the storage room beside them. And even if they did, they wouldn’t have worried too much about an “ignorant colored boy.”

 

“You help your boss with that lesson he taught the other night?” asked the farmer.

 

“Oh, yeah. He didn’t need a whole lot of help with that piece of trash. But I got my licks in, too.”

 

Sam knew better than go to the constable or Chief Daughtry. But he also knew he would not leave his friend without justice. So he waited, and watched, and watched, and waited until nearly a year passed. Almost everyone had forgotten about Emmett Walker. Almost everyone except Sam.

 

So it was on a quiet autumn Friday night, knowing from the conversations in his barbershop that Mrs. Toler was away, Sam Washington waited at the back door of the barbershop, and hoped that Edgar Moore would leave before his boss. As luck would have it, he did.

 

Entering the back door, he called to Toler that he needed help with Moore, who had been robbed in the back alley. When Toler entered the back room, Sam meted out a measure of justice. But that was only half of the job. He carried out the plan he had devised over the past few months to place a few pieces of evidence in the store, followed by a clandestine mission toMoore’s storage shed in the middle of the night.  His plan would assure that the State of North Carolina, took care of Edgar Moore. By planting the seeds of suspicion in Chief Daughtry’s head the next morning, he even pointed him to his suspect.

 

Continuing to silently sweep the floor, Sam glanced up at the clock. Only a few more hours. It was almost too easy; even for an ignorant colored boy.

The End

I stood over her body like I was waiting for her to awake.  I knew she wouldn’t naturally, but the mind doesn’t register death that quickly.  You’d think it would, but it doesn’t.  I finally knelt down beside her.  I didn’t see any blood, and her face was completely concealed by her long black hair, as if someone had wrapped her face with it, like a butcher wraps a lean cut of beef.

 

I’m not a doctor, but I felt for a pulse anyway.  Even if she had one I don’t know if I would have felt it.  I held my breath as I turned her head, removing the hair from her face.  Her eyes stared up at me, and a tiny dribble of blood hung in the corner of her mouth.  It was then that I noticed the red burn across her throat.  Like from a rope, or scarf.  It was like a horror picture.  A real bad one.

 

“We got all that,” the inspector said. “What we want to know is if you didn’t kill her then what the hell were you doing there?”

“We planned to meet at eleven in the Piazza del Popolo.  After thirty minutes, I started looking for her.  I was worried.  Then I found her, alone, lying as you found her.”

“Yes, but she was not alone, you were with her, and she was outside the Foreign Ministry.  What would a woman like that be doing outside the Ministry?”

I didn’t like his tone, the way he pursed his lips when he said ‘a woman like that.’ Still, I kept my mouth shut and just shook my head.

“She is your lover, this woman?”

“Some might say that.”

“What would you say?”

“I don’t talk about who I spend my time with.”

“Insolent American.”  He muttered, while taking an extended drag of his cigarette. “What are you doing in Italy again?”

“I’m a journalist, newspaperman, you know.” I searched my pockets looking for my smokes.  I knew I smoked my last one waiting for her.  One of the Italian’s gave me a look like,looking for a smoke? I’ve got lots of those, but you ain’t getting any.  I wanted to tell him a thing or two, but decided against it.  I’d just hit thirty a few months ago and didn’t want to spend the next thirty holed up in an Italian prison. “Look, I’ve told you all I know.  That’s it.”

“You say you didn’t kill her, yet we found her in your arms…dead.”

“Like I said…”

“We know, someone else killed her, right in front of the Ministry, and you just happened to find her.  Idiota.”

 

I didn’t have to speak Italian to know what that meant.  The thing was I thought he was a bigger idiota for not looking for the guy who killed her.  Instead they were sitting around, puffing on their smokes, grilling me.  Sure, she was my girl, but the truth was she was that kind of woman.  I’m not saying the walk the street, get more bang for your buck kinda girl, but she wasn’t the type to wait around for the phone to ring, if you know what I mean.  Oh, I never paid for anything.  Sure I bought her things, took her out, but only because I wanted to, not because she asked.  I knew she went out with one or two Italians cats when we met, but she hadn’t seen them since we took up.  She went out with some German guy now and then, a real big shot, but didn’t say much about him.  I think he made her nervous.  Germans made me nervous.  Not just now, before the war.  They had that affect on you.  The truth was she spent more time with me than anyone else.  When I wanted to see her, she’d be there.  I didn’t ask about her life away from me, and she didn’t ask about mine, in America.  That’s just the way it was with us.

 

We met in a bar in the Piazza.  I watched her all night, talking to a bunch of guys who looked just like the guy beside him, and the one next to him.  I was alone.  I’d been in Italybarely a week, before that it was France, and then England.  I’d been away from home for almost three months.

 

I noticed she didn’t leave the bar with any of them.  Instead, she left alone.  I sat there nursing my third bourbon.  A few minutes later, I noticed her walk back in, alone.

 

She walked over to my table.  Her legs went up to her chin, and her dark hair was pulled back like one of those Spanish dancers, with a red flower.  I think it was red, I can’t be sure,I couldn’t tear myself away from her eyes, those dark eyes gazing at me under long black lashes.

 

She glanced down at my smoke in the ashtray.  Without a word, she slipped it between her fingers and brought it to her red (this time I’m sure of the color) lips and inhaled.  She blew the stream right into my face.

 

“You British?” She said in heavy accented English.

“American.”

“Why you here?”

“War correspondent.  You know, newspaper.”

 

We talked for an hour, maybe two.  She was interested in my job, and I told her what she wanted to know.  She didn’t ask about much else, so I didn’t tell her.  After all, she wouldn’t be the first woman I’d talked to since I left America.  When a man’s away from home, so far away, he forgets his old life, he has to, or he might just go crazy.  Besides, I didn’t want to think about my wife right then.  I was too preoccupied with the Italian dish across from me.

 

I took her to the apartment I was renting.  That was the beginning of our three weeks together.  Three weeks, four days, and a few hours.  I remember details like that.  It’s the newspaperman in me.

 

She wore this watch like a necklace.  I’d never seen a watch necklace before, but she had one.  I thought it was strange to have a watch necklace.  Whenever you check the time, you’re looking at it upside down.  It made me dizzy just watching her.

 

She told me she lived with her mother, who was ill.  I’d never seen her place, and she never stayed all night with me because she said she didn’t want to leave her mother alone.  I had no reason not to believe her.  I trusted her as much as I trusted anyone.  She was good to me, and I was good to her.  I didn’t love her, and I don’t think she loved me. Oh, sure there were moments of tenderness, devotion, even jealousies, which meant I cared for her more than I intended.  But I knew I’d never leave my wife, and I don’t think she expected anything too spectacular from me.  If she did, she never said.

 

“I forgot to mention her mother.” I said to the inspector. “The girl lived with her, and took care of her.  Someone’s got to go over there and check on the old woman.”

He stared at me. “There is no mother.”

“She lived with her,” I persisted. “She mentioned her.”

“The woman died.”

“Are you sure?  She said…”

“I spoke with her brother.  The mother died over a week ago. They blame the girl, saying her association with the German killed her own mother. They called her a traitor.  He doesn’t want her buried with the family.  Says she disgraced them.”

“Have you spoken to the German? Don’t you think he killed her when he found out she was seeing me?  I was with her all the time.  At least four, five times a week.  Where did he think she was?  He probably followed her that night and killed her.”

“You Americans think everything’s about you.  From what I understand, the German loved her.   Says he’s never heard of you, didn’t know anything about you until I mentioned you. He says they were planning to get married.”

“And you believe him?”

“I’m no fool.  I asked myself, Bruno, why would a man like this, a big powerful German, want to marry an Italian whore?  See, we Italians are not as easily fooled as everyone thinks. The truth is, I don’t trust anyone, not even you.”

“Another thing,” I said, ignoring his trust comment, “her watch necklace was missing.  She always wore it.  It was the craziest thing, a watch necklace, upside down and all that, but she never took it off.  It was matted with her hair, and I teased her about that crazy necklace, or watch, whatever you want to call it.  But it’s gone.” I sighed.  “It’s the German, it’s got to be.”

“I can’t go around accusing someone like that until I’m absolutely sure, and I’m not.  I’ll have Mussolini breathing down my neck if I’m not careful.”

I nodded.

“I might drop by later if I have more questions, so don’t think about going too far. You got yourself mixed up with one, what do you Americans say? Crazy broad.  Americans always do.  You go for the legs and don’t care about anything else.  You should’ve stayed home with your wife in Connecticut.”

I didn’t want to ask where he learned about my wife and Connecticut.  I just figured he dug around a bit.  It wasn’t too hard to find out about an American journalist in Italy during war.

I was just about to pour myself a stiff drink when I heard a knock at my door. It was a friend of the girl’s.  I’d met her a few times.

She fell into my arms in tears.   When we parted, I finished pouring my drink and poured a glass for her.

“Do you think it was him?” She asked.  “Do you think it was the German?”

“I don’t know.  I think they’d rather pin it on me than him.  Better an American than a German, especially that German, for the time being at least.”

“You?  You’re not the guilty one.  You didn’t even know.”

“Know? Know what?”

“She was a spy.”

“A what?”

“A spy.  This whole time with the German was a farce.  She was working with the British, and meeting with them secretly.  Her mother died because she found out she was seeing a German.  It killed her mother.  If only her mother would have known.”

“She should’ve told me.  I’m American for God’s sake.”

“She wanted to, but she knew it would put you in danger. Look at her now.  You could be in danger already.  We both could be. The German might think you were involved.  Perhaps you ought to leave Italy.”

“Why,” I repeated. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

 

We finished our drinks and the girl left.  I knew then that the German hadn’t killed her after all.  I had.

 

I was a jealous fool.  I told you before I didn’t love her, but because of my jealousies I knew I cared enough about her to want to own her, have her to myself.  I was out with some companions that night.  Friends, some might say, but I wouldn’t go that far.  One was a radio bum, a real know-it-all, and the other was a commander in the British Army, a fellow you couldn’t help but like.

 

We were at this little place, sitting inside.  You know how everyone eats outside in Italy?  Well, most everyone.  We were inside, eating a little, drinking a lot.

 

As you know by now, I like my bourbon.  Straight up.  The way God intended.  If I can’t have a dry martini in New York, it’s got to be bourbon in Rome.  Anyway, I’d had a few drinks and was feeling it.  I hadn’t eaten all day.  I would have killed for a steak, medium rare, but God knows they would have thrown some linguini on it and smothered it with marinara.  The commander and the know-it-all were talking about Churchill when I noticed my girl walk into the joint alone.  I wasn’t expecting to see her, but was grateful for coincidences. She looked in my direction, then stopped.  After a few seconds she finally came over to the table.  She had met the commander and the know-it-all once before, so I assumed they wouldn’t mind if she joined us.  I noticed she was acting a little strange, but didn’t think much of it.  I wish I would’ve looked at the commander just to see what his face looked like when I called her over.  He must have been as tense as my girl.

 

She sat beside me, and I ordered her a drink. She seemed restless, and excused herself to the powder room.

 

A moment later, the commander excused himself.  The effects of the bourbon were running through me literally, therefore, I was the third person to excuse myself for this reason, leaving the know-it-all alone.

 

I teetered toward the men’s room.  The bourbon affected me worse that night than any other.  I wondered for a second if I had been poisoned by the lousy commie bartender.

 

I did my business, and as I was leaving the men’s room I heard some rustling sounds coming from behind a closed door beside me, like a storeroom, where the Italians kept their crummy booze and noodles.  I heard voices whispering.  I reached for the knob, but stopped myself, then quickly ducked around the corner to see if my assumptions were correct.

 

As you can imagine, they were.  A moment later she came out of the room, followed by the commander.  I was shocked.  The commander didn’t seem like the kind of guy who did that sort of thing.  Besides, he spent his time with a blonde, a real dish.  What did I know anyway? I’d always been a lousy judge of character.  All I knew was that I was jealous, more than I’d ever been.  It was raging through me like the plague.  My first thought was to kill the limey bastard, but I just wasn’t the killing kind. Instead, I returned to the table, finished my drink and left with the girl on my arm.

 

We had a fight on our way back to my apartment.  I accused her of what I knew to be so.

“You don’t understand,” she said, “it’s not like that.”

“I heard you two.  What were you doing in there?  Why did you even come home with me? Why not go with him?”

“Please,” she said as she looked around, “let’s not discuss this now, it’s not…”

“Right in front of me.  Like I’m a damned fool.  Did you make a date with him?”

“We’ll talk later, in private.”

“In private?” I repeated loudly. “You’re sneaking off with some British commander and you want to talk in private.”

It was then I noticed a dark figure lurking in the shadows.  She glanced at the figure and back at me.  Her eyes were wide, and when I see her face in my mind now I realize she was scared to death.  But at that moment I was too damned tight from the bourbon to see anything but my own jealousies.

“I’ve been looking for you?” The voice boomed in a heavy German accent.

She leaned toward me and whispered in my ear. “I’ll see you at eleven in the Piazza.”

I can still feel her chilled breath.  It was like death.

 

Lying on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling; my heart pounding like crazy.  I turn on my side, and feel something press into my hipbone.  I sit up and look under the sheet, and there it is.  The watch necklace.  It must have fallen off the last time we were together.  I wonder how I could have missed it.  How I could be so blind.  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then it comes rushing back, like a motion picture playing before my eyes. I remember running into the commander’s blonde on the way home.  Like I said, I was tight, tighter than I’d been in years, and said things I shouldn’t have, that her fellow and my girl were messing around.  She was upset.  We both were.  But dames take that sort of thing harder than us men.  She was sobbing and saying how much she loved the commander, and how they talked of marriage. I made things worse, so much worse.  I could’ve made it better, but I didn’t.  I thought of making the moves on her, but decided instead to get her as angry with him as I could.  Oh, I gave it to her good, laid it on real thick, and fed her all the garbage I could think of.  I told her what a bum he was, fooling around on such a classy dame like herself with some, how did I put it? Italian trash. It didn’t take much to get her all worked up. She was crazy in love with him.

 

Afterwards, I came home and slept off the bourbon, well some of it.  I suppose she must have walked for hours, trying to get the dirty thought out of her mind.  But she couldn’t shake it.  She just wanted to talk to her.  Sure, just talk. She wasn’t the kind of girl to do anything else.  But she had done something else, hadn’t she?  Something just came over her. She didn’t mean it.  I put the thought in her head.  Oh, I didn’t tell her to take one of those Hermes scarves she always wore and wrap it around my girl’s neck, but God knows I said enough.  Poor girl.The thought of him with someone else was just too much.

 

Connecticut seems a lifetime away.  I wonder when I’ll see it next.  For now, I’ll just sit with that damned watch necklace that couldn’t keep time if life depended on it, and wait.  Wait until they come. And when they do I’ll tell them.  I’m the guilty one.

The End

Paris, France (May, 1961)

 

Baron Maurice Chembeau, commissaire principal in the National Police, opened the Orleans folder once again.  It was clear that Esteban Mendoza now required his special attention.  If the “Mendoza problem” were ever to be resolved, extraordinary measures must be taken without delay.  Baron Chembeau began to make the necessary telephone calls.

 

 

Orleans, France (May-July, 1961)

 

“If there’s a Hell, there’s a special place in it for men like Esteban Mendoza,” Sabine Williams had declared more than once.  A regional reporter for La République du Centre, the only daily newspaper to serve the Orleans metropolitan area, Sabine was given to making hyperbolic, clichéd pronouncements.  Bilingual daughter of a black, American father and a white, French mother, she’d grown up on both sides of the Atlantic.  Upon her parents’ divorce in 1952 when she was fourteen, Sabine elected to remain with her mother in France.

 

Because of her background her editors felt that she was particularly well qualified to report on problems arising from the presence of a racially-troubled U.S. Army in and around early 1960’s Orleans.  It wasn’t long before the periodic, intra-Army race riots were no longer news.  Real news, as Sabine Williams saw it, would be her exposé of Mendoza’s illegal operations which were corrupting local authorities, area youth, and American soldiers stationed throughout the region.

 

Off and on for more than a year, Sabine had labored to get the goods on Mendoza.  The son of inmates of an internment camp for fugitives from the Spanish civil war, Esteban Mendoza grew up French and prospered in the city near which his parents were once confined.  Most of his success came from the presence of the American Army.  GIs formed a loyal clientele eager to part with dollars for a variety of mainly illegal products and services.  In a few, short years Mendoza had become the entrepreneurial animus behind all dollar-based commerce in metropolitan Orleans outside the American Post Exchange system.

 

Sabine was nearly done writing her Mendoza exposé when she had to set it aside to report on what her editors insisted that she call, with apologies to Baudelaire, “The Flowers of Evil Murders.”  Every week for eight weeks one of Mendoza’s prostitutes was found dead, at home, her throat slashed, her corpse blanketed by the large, original, unsigned, water color sketch of a different flower.  Several of Mendoza’s girls told Sabine that, prior to the murders, their boss had received unsigned notes ordering him out of the prostitution business.  If Mendoza didn’t comply, the note writer promised to “weed out the flowers of evil one by one.”

 

After more than two months, the National Police seemed to be without a clue as to the killer’s identity.  Sabine needed a fresh perspective.  Army Specialist Walter Newsome, her current romantic interest and favorite armchair detective, couldn’t have returned from temporary duty in Germany at a better time.

 

In Sabine’s love-struck eyes the black Specialist, a college drop-out and working alcoholic, was highly intelligent, read and spoke excellent French (for an American), and reminded her pleasantly of her father.  For nearly a year Walter and Sabine had been an on-again, off-again couple.  When they were on-again, as they were now, he was her Sam Cooke and she was his Marpessa Dawn.

 

The young reporter knew where she’d find her Sam Cooke on Saturday night.  If she corralled Specialist Newsome at La Pucelle Brave before he finished his first Pernod, there was a chance that he’d have something interesting to say about the murders.  Sabine would bring along her case file to provide grist for his mental mill.

 

As expected, Sabine found Walter standing at the bar, Pernod in hand.  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, grabbed his elbow, and steered him to a back table.

 

“First, I want to know about the sketches that have everybody baffled,” Walter began, a little too abruptly for Sabine’s taste.  “Those flowers have got to be very  important.”

 

“Well, the cops have positively identified all eight flowers in the sketches.  Let me see.  I’ve a list here, somewhere.  Got it!  These are the names in the order that the sketches were found: calla lily, euphorbia, trillium, columbine, bloodroot, black-eyed susan, shasta daisy, and anemone.  They make no sense.”

 

“They make sense to the killer, and I suspect he hopes that they’ll make sense to someone else or why go to all the trouble of preparing sketches and draping them over the corpses of his victims?”

 

“The man’s a monster!”  Sabine was getting really worked up.

 

“A monster with a mission and a message.”

 

“Are the flowers some kind of code?”

“They have to be.  And I think I know what it is.  Just let me borrow your flower list.  If I’m right I’ll give it back to you with a solution next week, same time, same station.”

 

[Challenge:  At this point the reader may wish to leave the story temporarily to decipher the message of the flowers.  In matching wits with Specialist Newsome, the reader has the advantage:  nine clues to Newsome’s eight.]

 

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.  Do you really have a clue or is this just the Pernod talking?”

 

“I need time to get to the Coligny Caserne library to follow up on my hunch.  I recognize some of these flowers as being examples of how a certain number series, the Fibonacci sequence, occurs in nature.  I’ll explain next week if my hunch is right.  Meanwhile, run the names of the victims by me.”

 

Sabine rummaged around in her case folder.  After an anxious minute she came up with a list of the victims’ names which she handed over to Specialist Newsome.

 

“Just as I thought,” Walter said.  “I knew all these ladies slightly.  They were some of the vanilla girls who specialize in the chocolate trade, not that I ever sampled any of their wares.  The victims spent a lot of time in Paris working as the key employees of an escort service which Mendoza owns.  I hear it caters to an upscale clientele from certain African embassies.  The girls’ absence caused some bad feeling among us chocolate soldiers.  Still, I don’t think that the killer was a customer with a grudge.  As I remember, each girl was murdered in

her hometown apartment and all of the victims supposedly followed Mendoza’s orders to use hotel rooms, not their own digs, to entertain clients.  So it’s possible that our killer was trusted by his victims, at least trusted enough to be let into their own rooms.  What do the cops have to say about this?  Any suspects?”

 

“Not yet, from what I’ve been told.  The police know that the victims all specialized in ‘chocolate soldiers,’ as you insist on calling yourselves, so the cops aren’t ruling out the possibility that the murders were the work of someone who’s a racial bigot, a xenophobe, or both.  From what I’ve been able to determine, the victims didn’t share a former or current boyfriend who could be the murderer.  When it came to romance they all seem to have preferred their own sex.  Now, I’ve got a question.  Why do we have to wait a whole week for you to find out about those flowers?”

 

“Look, my time’s not my own; it belongs to Uncle Sugar.  Besides, my guess is that the message of the flowers is at best a clue, not a confession.  This artist doesn’t sign his work.  You’ll have to keep on digging.”

 

And dig Sabine did, but to no avail.  Thankfully, the week went by without a ninth murder.  The downside was that the young reporter was desperate for something to show to her editors.  If only she could count on Specialist Newsome to translate the language of the flowers.  That would be a story, even if she must mention his damn Fibonacci numbers, whatever they were.

 

Saturday night came and Sabine was not disappointed.  Walter was waiting for her at La Pucelle Brave, Pernod in hand.  When they were seated at their favorite table in the rear of the café-bar, Specialist Newsome fairly crowed.

 

“I’ve cracked the code!  If you take the number of petals on each flower from your list you get members of the Fibonacci series:  1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, and 5 again.  The repetition of the 5 suggests that the numbers represent a word or words.  Assigning letters of the alphabet to the numbers, in order, we have:  A, B, C, E, H, M, U, and E.   Unscramble them and they spell‘EMBAUCHE’   Now, doesn’t ‘on embauche’ mean something like ‘we’re hiring’?  Having thinned out the ranks of Mendoza’s prostitutes, the killer could be mocking our favorite master pimp.”

 

“You may be right,” Sabine agreed with some hesitation.  “But, I’m not convinced.  On your theory the murderer went to a heck of a lot of trouble just to convey a message which can be interpreted in more than one way.  As an example, since you’re supplying missing words, why not consider ‘pas d’embauche’  for ‘no vacancies’ which sends the opposite message?”

 

Walter was mildly deflated.  “I suppose the letters could form something other than ‘EMBAUCHE’ but my French isn’t good enough to come up with anything else.  Maybe you’ll have better luck.  In any case we’re no closer to finding the killer.”

 

“Still, I’ll have a story for the next edition.  My readers can try their hands at uncovering the message hidden in the petal counts of the flowers that the murderer sketched.  I won’t have to mention your precious Fibonacci series and I’ll let ‘EMBAUCHE’ remain our little secret for now.”

 

“You’re missing a chance to enlighten the masses,” Walter teased.

 

“They want to be titillated not tutored, thank you very much.  Now, back to your Pernod; you’ve earned it.  I’ve got to return to my office and write my story.”

 

“Just a minute.  Before you go buzzing off, I want to give you something else to think about:  Markov has dropped from sight.”

 

“Isn’t Markov that itinerant artist you once told me about?  As I remember, he makes a poor living by painting quick oil portraits from photographs of GI wives and girlfriends.”

 

“The very same.  He disappeared without explanation just before I left for Germany.”

 

“So, why would Markov want to kill those poor girls?”

 

“He’s a gentle soul.  I don’t see him as a throat slasher.  But he could have painted those damn flowers.”

 

“Then he would be an accomplice to murder.”

 

“An unwitting accomplice at worst.  In that case he must be dead by now.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“The killer couldn’t let him discover how the sketches would be used.  Better check to see if the police are looking for him.  They may even have found his body and are keeping quiet about it.”

 

“I’ll do that.”

 

“All right.  Let’s get back together again next Saturday night when you’re not in such a hurry.  Perhaps your readers will be able to make sense of the flower code.”

 

Sabine left La Pucelle Brave grateful to Specialist Newsome for a story which would pass muster if only just barely.  The theory that the floral sketches conveyed a code would intrigue her readers, she felt sure.  Whether

they could make heads or tails of the letters “ABCEHMUE” only time would tell.

 

And time did tell; only time was not particularly talkative.  By Tuesday night Sabine had received just one response.  A retired military historian telephoned her with his theory that, when the code was unscrambled, the letters spelled “CHEMBEAU,” a reference to the Chevalier de Chembeau, an obscure knight who helped Jeanne d’Arc break the English siege of Orleans in 1429.

 

Sabine didn’t think it likely that the killer of eight prostitutes would adopt as a nom de guerre the name of a 15th century warrior unknown to all but specialists in medieval military history. Nevertheless, the suggestion started her thinking.  She and Walter might well have erred in failing to realize that the killer had indeed signed his work, not at the bottom of each picture but in the petal

counts of the flowers which he sketched or had sketched for him.

 

Even so, Sabine was reluctant to abandon “EMBAUCHE” as a solution to the puzzle.  Something in the shadows of her memory was flitting about just beyond the light of recognition.  While preparing for bed on Tuesday night, no longer trying to grasp the illusive moth of a thought, Sabine remembered Mme Eglantine Menthe Bauche, the oddly named, recently assigned member of the vice squad whom she’d been meaning to interview.  Widow of a vice squad officer, Mme Bauche had been encouraged to join the force after her husband’s death.  According to Mendoza’s ladies, Bauche never made any arrests but she did make regular rounds of the ladies’ homes at the end of their evening’s work to collect payoffs disguised as voluntary contributions to the National Policemen’s Benevolent Fund.

 

It was quite a stretch to think of Mme Bauche as a serial killer.  She had had the opportunity, but Sabine was reasonably sure that the policewoman lacked the motive and the lethal skills to have committed eight serial murders.  Also, there was no indication that she was clever enough to have thought up the flower code or talented enough to have executed the floral sketches. Still, Sabine knew that Mme Bauche must be interviewed if only to get a feminine, police perspective on the murders.  There was always an outside chance that, if Bauche were the guilty party, she would betray herself in some way which the young reporter could recognize.

 

Because Mme Bauche worked the evening shift, she preferred to talk to Sabine at the Bauche home in the late afternoon.  When the reporter arrived for the interview she found the front door ajar.  Calling for Mme Bauche and not receiving an answer, Sabine took the liberty of wandering through the gloom of the old house until she came to a sunlit room which contained three objects of particular interest:  the corpse of Mme Bauche, a bloodstained knife in the bloodspattered left hand of Mme Bauche, and a bloodstained easel on which a painting was resting:  the sketch of the black rose of death or of farewell.  Unlike its predecessors, this sketch bore a signature in defiant, red letters:  “E. M. Bauche.”

 

Sabine phoned for the police who questioned the young reporter about her presence in the house but permitted her to remain so long as she didn’t “get in the way.”  That evening the story she filed with her editors omitted two

details which she wanted to discuss with Specialist Newsome on Saturday night.

 

Meanwhile, the bodies kept piling up.  On Thursday, Markov’s shallow grave was discovered in Orleans Forest when the ground gave way under the feet of a passing hunter.  Markov had been dead for more than three months.   From the dried blood on the artist’s shirt collar, the medical examiner concluded that Markov’s throat had been slashed.  Then, on Friday, Mendoza was found dead in his back garden, his throat cut to form a grotesque smile.  The unsigned water color sketch blanketing his body was that of a trefoil, the flower of revenge.  Pieces of the puzzle were on the table, but they didn’t seem to fit together.

Sabine very much wanted to discuss matters with Specialist Newsome.

 

As usual Sabine and Saturday evening both found Walter Newsome at the bar of La Pucelle Brave, well into his first Pernod.

“Come on, my dear, we need to talk.”

 

“Anything to oblige a lady,” Newsome replied wearily.

 

“Look, I must have your opinion.  You’ve read about Mme Bauche?  About Markov?  About Mendoza?”

 

“Naturally.  I hang on your every word in La République.”

 

“Don’t be such a smart-ass!  Put down that Pernod and help me.  There were things about the crime scene which I didn’t report.  First, there was blood all over that easel, but none on the front of the flower sketch.  When the cops lifted the sketch from the easel there were thin streaks of blood on the back of the picture which had not penetrated to the front.  Next, the knife was in Bauche’s left hand.  From the angle of the gash on her throat, her wound could only have been self-inflicted if she were right-handed, or so the cops say.  What do you make of these anomalies?”

 

Specialist Newsome closed his eyes in a caricature of deep thought and took a swig of the Pernod.  “Well, Lois Lane,” he drawled after a suspensive pause, “I make of them what I suspectyou do.  The sketch was suitable for framing, suitable for framing Mme Bauche.  It was planted on the easel after Bauche’s throat was slit.  The killer brought the easel to the Bauche house along with the other props he’d need to dress the set for a painter’s suicide scene.  The placement of the sketch and of the knife was deliberately bungled.  For the moment, I can’t think why.  But, I’m convinced that our killer was too clever to have made two stupid mistakes.  Now, before we go on, is there anything else you know which hasn’t appeared in the papers?”

 

“Well, for what it’s worth, there’s Chembeau, the 15th century warrior who helped Jeanne d’Arc save Orleans from the English.”

 

“How the devil does he fit in?”

 

“I don’t say that he does.  But, one of my readers noticed that the letters of the flower code can be unscrambled to spell ‘CHEMBEAU,’ as in the Chevalier de Chembeau.”

 

“I see.  That’s interesting.  Wait!  What if our killer is a right-wing avenger hell bent on breaking what he believes to be a new siege of Orleans, this time by a Franco-Hispanic crime boss and his confederates?  I like it!  I like it!  Such an avenger would take the name of one of the city’s 15th century liberators.”

 

“But, Walter.  Why would he take the name of someone so obscure?”

 

“Stay with me!  You’ve got to remember that this guy was primarily employing the flower code to frame Mme Bauche.  He had to find a nom de guerre which would use the same letters.  It must have been pure luck that he came up with

‘CHEMBEAU,’ the kind of luck that only happens in bad fiction and in real life.”

 

“But why frame Mme Bauche?”

 

“To do the maximum damage to Mendoza.”

 

“You’ve lost me.”

 

“I’ve only just now seen it myself.  Stay with me!  If my theory about a right-wing nut is correct, ‘Chembeau’s’ plan was diabolical.  Step one was to insinuate himself into Mendoza’s confidence and then to involve Mendoza in a get-rich-quick scheme.  Step two was to execute the scheme in such a way as to backfire on Mendoza, alienating him from his criminal confederates and the corrupt local officials who tolerated his activities for a price.”

 

“Mendoza was no fool.”

 

“But he was greedy, and greed (like lust) lowers the IQ, or so I’ve been told.”

 

“Are you saying that Mendoza had a hand in the deaths of his eight prostitutes?”

 

“Exactly.  And because their deaths would appear to be counter to his best interests, Mendoza felt that he would be beyond suspicion.  Although a pimp can’t insure his prostitutes, an escort service can insure its key employees. (What a marvel of social hypocrisy!  I read about that last year in Le Monde.)  Mendoza had his girls killed to make a killing.  His error was in being too greedy.  At the cost of not covering his tracks, he wouldn’t sacrifice any uninsured assets.  He arranged for the murders of only those chocolate soldier ‘spécialistes’ who worked off and on for his Paris escort service.  This was Mistake Number One, and my guess is that ‘Chembeau’ encouraged Mendoza to make it.”

 

“I still don’t see why Mendoza would agree to the murder of eight valuable assets.  By all accounts, the girls were pulling down big money in Paris.”

 

“As insured, key employees of the escort service, they had to have been worth more dead than alive to Mendoza, at least by his reckoning, or he’d never have sacrificed them.  The trick was to persuade the insurance company that the escorts had been murdered in Orleans by a lunatic serial killer on a mission to stamp out vice, miscegenation, or both.”

 

“Then, there were no threatening notes?”

 

“Not unless Mendoza got them from ‘Chembeau’ or wrote them to himself.”

“But, I must ask you again, why frame and kill a corrupt cop?  Why kill Mme Bauche?  Her collecting for the Benevolent Fund wasn’t that burdensome.”

 

“Once more Mendoza played into ‘Chembeau’s’ hands.  My guess is that ‘Chembeau’ argued that Mme Bauche would be easy to scapegoat.  After all, she visited the girls regularly in their homes to collect for the Fund.  Of course, the killer really didn’t have to be someone the girls trusted.  It would have been a comparatively simple matter for ‘Chembeau’ to pick the locks of the girls’

apartments and lie in wait for his victims, just as he did for Mme Bauche.  Her role as a scapegoat must have heightened Mendoza’s sense of security and helped convince him to go ahead with the scheme.  He hadn’t counted on ‘Chembeau’s’ deliberate Mistake Number Two:  the bungled placement of the signed sketch and of the murder knife.  This made the police suspect Mendoza of trying to frame Mme Bauche to divert suspicion from himself.  When Mendoza’s

people became aware that Mendoza was a police suspect, they began to have their own suspicions about their boss’s complicity in the murders of the eight prostitutes.”

 

“If you’re right, this was quite a plot!

 

“But wait, as they say on TV, there’s more.  To make it clear that Mme Bauche was not the painter of the ‘flowers of evil’ sketches, ‘Chembeau’ buried Markov’s body in too shallow a grave so the corpse would be found sooner rather

than later.  The police couldn’t fail to notice that the M.O. of Markov’s killer was the same as the M.O. in the ‘Flowers of Evil Murders.’  The cops would be led to conclude that Markov was eliminated because he, not Bauche, was the painter of the floral sketches.”

 

Sabine sighed.  “O.K.  Then, who killed Mendoza?”

 

“Mendoza’s death may have been a revenge killing by members of the vice squad with a little help from a police sketch artist who drew that picture of the trefoil.  I don’t really buy that.  I suspect that the trefoil was the last sketch ‘Chembeau’ had Markov make before he killed the artist.”

 

“Then, you think ‘Chembeau’ planned on killing Mendoza all along?”

 

“Yes. ‘Chembeau’ wanted to eliminate the chance that the crime king could implicate him at a later date.  But, he needed to raise the possibility that Mendoza’s death was a police revenge killing for Mme Bauche’s murder.  This would widen the rift between corrupt cops and Mendoza’s criminal organization which developed, I think, after Bauche’s suspicious ‘suicide.’  Also, by killing Mendoza, ‘Chembeau’ pretty much guaranteed that there would be a disruptive underworld battle to choose the crime king’s successor.”

 

“All this death!  In the end, what did ‘Chembeau’ really accomplish?”

“Nothing much, I’m afraid.  I doubt that Orleans will ever be liberated from vice as long as our Army is encamped here.”

 

In spite of herself, Sabine began to weep.  “Then, I wish you all would just go away — well, not all of you…”

 

 

Paris, France (July, 1961)

 

Baron Maurice Chembeau, commissaire principal in the National Police, sealed the Orleans folder.  His agents provocateurs had succeeded admirably in bringing about Esteban Mendoza’s downfall with a minimum loss of life.  Still, whatever the cost, Chembeau would always do his duty.  Ever faithful, he daily reaffirmed his commitment to the time-honored, noble values of his illustrious ancestors by wearing, pinned to his lapel, a fresh red nasturtium:  beloved flower of patriotism, glorious flower of conquest.

The End

Detective Henry Chang held the phone between his ear and shoulders and took notes.

“Why did you call me?” he asked and smirked when he heard the answer.  “Of course, an Asian woman’s been killed, so you assign a Chinese guy to the case,” he said to the caller.

On his way to the crime scene, Detective Chang drove past the Naval base teeming with moored ships and idle sailors just back from Viet Nam waters arriving at the murder scene- an alley in a dreary section of San Diego. The sound of a grinding garbage truck and a bus accelerating from a corner stop was the only noise at 6:15 AM. The victim was covered with a gray sheet but the blood from the neck wound had seeped through.

“Probably died late last night: throat’s cut,” a patrolman offered.

Chang knelt by the body and noticed the woman’s hands were bound. He lifted her wrists and stared at the rope.

“Pretty fancy knot,” the patrolman said from behind him.

“Do you have her name?” Chang asked.

“Managan, Maria; not much in her purse-a pink ID card with her picture, expired last year,” the uniformed cop answered.

When I got the call I was told she was a Filipina; who decided that?”Chang asked.

“A what?”

“A woman born in the Philippines.”

“Detective Markham said he was in the Navy and spent some time in the Philippines. He seemed pretty certain about her nationality.”

“Markham,” Chang wrote down.

Chang was surprised how young Markham was and said so when they met later.

“Not as young as I look, Detective; I was on the force for about two years then enlisted in the Navy in ‘70, came back and made detective not long after.”

“You were in the Philippines?”

“Yea, being a cop they put me in Shore Patrol and I spent a year at Subic Bay, a base in the Philippines.”

“You saw the body,” Chang asked, “anything strikes you as unusual?”

“The knot-it’s a sailor’s knot. Some you make real quick and they’ll hold a destroyer to the dock in a storm, but others are more for show than binding. That was a show knot. I think she was unconscious or dead when that knot was made.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there were no abrasions around the wrists, so she didn’t struggle to get free.”

“You’re pretty good for a whippersnapper,” Chang said.

“I had a good teacher. Not here, the captain’s a jerk; a good teacher in the Philippines- Chief Scalia. You may have read about his big case, happened in ‘71. Navy lieutenant killed by the C.O.; the lieutenant was screwing the old man’s wife. Got great press.”

“Did you know that this is the third murder of a Philippine woman in Southern California in the last six months?”

“No, I didn’t. Same pattern?”

“Seems so, I haven’t looked into the earlier killings yet but some of the same links-Filipina, tied up, throat slit. An ID card found on the last victim was for access to a Navy base.”

“So you think there is a link to the Navy?” Markham asked.

“It’s a Navy town. I can handle the murder investigation but could use help with the Navy piece, especially if I’m looking for military suspects.”

“I only spent two years in. Chief Scalia could help.”

Chang was puzzled, “what do you mean?”

“He’s retired and living just south of here. I had a beer with him when I got back to the states.”

 

Chief Napoleon Scalia lived in a one bedroom apartment in a section of town he called “colorful.” He was sitting in his living room when the phone rang.

“Detective Chang?” Scalia repeated the caller’s name.

“ Yes, I met a cop who knows you-Markham; he knew you from the Philippines.”

“I know Markham, is he okay?”

“He’s fine; goin’ to be a good cop. He says you had something to do with that. He also said you might be able to help me.”

Chang gave him the details as he knew them: three women murdered, all born in the Philippines, in their twenties, two divorced from servicemen, one still married but husband’s out to sea, throat cut, tied around the wrist with a sailor’s knot. No suspects yet.

“What can I do?”

“First your role has to be limited. We don’t usually involve civilians but you were a military cop, that’s close enough. But talking to you Navy guys can be a second language and it’s going to get thicker as I look into the military angle.”

“So, you need me to translate?”

“I’m going to the bar where one of the women was killed. It’s a sailor’s

hangout on Warren Street, run by some ex-Navy guy.”

“Chief Cookson is the guy who owns the bar. We were on a tin can together,” Scalia said when they were outside the building.

“A what?” Chang asked.

“I see why you need me.”

Scalia and Cookson greeted each other warmly and talked briefly about the ship they’d served on. Chang noted the physical differences: Cookson was portly with a sun and alcohol reddened face; a faded blue anchor showed beneath the edge of his short sleeve shirt. He walked as if the deck beneath his feet were moving. Scalia was the opposite: over six feet, still trim, his hair cut short. The only indication of Scalia’s former occupation was a rope tattoo around his bicep.

Scalia introduced Chang.

“What can I do for you?” Cookson asked after being introduced.

“We are investigating the murder of a Philippine woman.”

“Are you a cop, Nap?”Cookson continued after Scalia shook his head; “I heard she was killed just down the street. She was in here that night, sat with some guys, then left alone.”

“Did you see her leave?” Chang asked.

“No, but I saw the guys with her stayed for a while after she left.”

“Could she have left with someone else while you were pouring drinks?”

“It’s possible but it would have happened fast. Those guys ordered a round; they called out from their table. She was sitting with them. When I called back to pick up the drinks, she wasn’t there.”

“Had they ordered a drink for her?”

Cook thought for a minute. “There were three guys, three drinks, as best I can remember.”

Scalia asked, “were they Navy?”

“I heard enough of their conversation to know they were sailors, deck hands, I think.”

“Anyone act suspicious; did you see anybody leave around the same time?” Chang doubled his questions.

Cookson thought again, “there was one guy-another sailor.”

“What was suspicious about him?”

“You know, Nap,” he turned to Scalia, “sailors go bar hopping with their shipmates, never alone. This guy was by himself. He ordered a San Miguel beer-the Philippine brew. I don’t carry that brand. He wasn’t happy. ”

“You didn’t hear him talk, how did you know he was Navy? Was he in uniform?” Chang asked.

“No, but he had a ship’s cap in his back pocket.”

“Could you see the ship’s name, Cookie?” Scalia asked.

“Patrick Henry,” Cookson said with a smile.

“Pretty observant, Chief,” Chang commented.

The two ex-chiefs laughed, and Scalia explained, “Detective Chang, this is Patrick Henry Cookson.”

The USS Patrick Henry CG 85 was an eight thousand ton cruiser, over five hundred forty feet in length, with a crew of more than five hundred. The Henry had spent nearly nine months in the Gulf of Tonkin off the North Viet Nam coast.

“Likely they had been to Subic Bay a few times for R&R and replenishment,” Scalia said to Chang in the car.

“Great, that narrows it down to a large Navy boat and includes anyone who served on it; and who hates Philippine women.”

“Could be worse,” said Scalia, “could have been a carrier.”

“Thanks, Chief, I’ll contact the Navy and get a list of the men who served on board.”

“Get a deployment schedule and focus on the crew on board when the ship was in Subic.”

“That’ll narrow it down a bit more,” Chang said sarcastically, “any other advice?”

“It’s a ship not a boat.”

 

“The following Sunday Chang called Scalia. “Hi, Chief; how’s it going?”

“Fine, just looking at the want ads; I have to do something with myself.” He folded the paper and put it on the chair.

“Maybe I can help; a lot of cops get into security when they retire, I can call a few companies.”  Chang’s tone changed, “another killing, same way: throat cut, hands bound with a sailor’s knot, and no witnesses.”

“Did you get the crew list?” Scalia asked.

“Yes, I and it’s an awful lot of people to track down. Maybe you can help; if you’re not doing anything I can stop over. It’ll take me a while; I’ve got to get a car from the precinct garage- mine’s giving me trouble. Hope your neighbors don’t start wondering about you if a black and white’s parked in front.”

Scalia laughed, “they see more cop cars around here than in front of the station house.”

When Chang arrived, Scalia was throwing away an empty frozen dinner container. The living room had few pieces of furniture but the shelves around the room were filled with ship clocks, carvings and other items he’d acquired during his many tours and foreign ports. Photographs of ships, all with visible hull number, were hung around the apartment. Chang put the list on an end table.

“You’re not married, are you, Chief?”

Scalia laughed, “No doilies or flowers, is that how you can tell?”

“Maybe; single men I know live in places you can pack up in a crate and move anywhere and it looks the same, no matter where. Women do things to make a place more permanent, more settled.”

“When you live aboard a ship all your adult life, you develop the habit.”

“I guess,” Chang said.

“You were right, quite a list,” Scalia remarked as he picked up the file Chang brought.

“Any idea how to reduce it?”

“I recognize a few names, career guys; I can contact BUPERS and see if any of them are in the San Diego area so I can call them.”

“BUPERS?”

“Bureau of Naval Personnel,” Scalia answered, “they have records of all sailors. I’ll ask them about the senior crew of the Henry.”

“But one of them on your list of familiar names could be the killer.”

“It’s a risk but I know these guys, they’re chiefs and officers.”

“You mean chiefs and officers don’t commit crimes?”

“I can’t vouch for officers,” Scalia said smiling.

“Chief, any thoughts on why a sailor would hate Philippine women?”

“Nothing I can think of. I’ve met a lot of Filipinos; they’re hospitable people. But to a lot of the ship board sailors Filipinos were the pimps and whores of Olongapo City outside Subic, not the rural folks.”

The Chief contacted most of the recognized names but it wasn’t helpful. On the following Monday, Chang and Scalia went to a small house east of the city and met with Warrant Officer Dennis Letori.

Scalia seemed uneasy questioning Litori, often addressing him as “sir.”

“Mr. Letori, were there any incidents involving one of the ship’s crew of the Patrick Henry and the bar women-any captain’s mast?” Scalia asked.

“There were fights; one guy broke a bartender’s jaw, but nothing that didn’t happen in most ports. These young guys were sitting in the Gulf of Tonkin for sixty to ninety days at a time.”

“Any AWOL, you can remember?”

CWO Letori shook his head.

“Anyone you can recall might hate Philippine women?” Chang was frustrated.

“No, not much help, am I?”

“Anyone on board ever marry a Filipina?” Scalia asked.

“Probably; some of the bar girls were inexperienced, impressionable, or devious,” he added, “they got pregnant and that became a ticket to the States.”

“What happened when they got to the States?” Chang cut in.

“Other family members followed and the next thing you know this guy’s supporting a houseful on E-5 pay. There were stories like that all over, not just in Navy towns, and not just with Philippine women. Some of the wives even returned to their prior occupations.”

“How did the Navy feel about these marriages?”

“I think the Navy would prefer they didn’t happen but it doesn’t affect the guy’s career.” He looked at Scalia, “On a Friday night at the Chief’s club there are more languages spoken than at the UN.”

“It could hurt an officer’s career,” Scalia corrected.

“Yea, that’s true but most officers don’t go to those bars or if they did, they don’t pick up bar girls. It undermines their authority to be seen with a woman who was screwing a seaman apprentice the night before.”

Chang stood up and extended his hand; “we’ll be leaving, thanks.”

Scalia rose and automatically stiffened, “thank you for your help, sir.”

Chang almost expected him to salute. As Chang handed Litori his business card, Scalia took it and wrote his name and number on the back.

In the car, Scalia asked, “what’s next?”

“I still think we should look at the men who married Philippine women.  This kind of hatred is not based on casual contact. Can you get a list for me?”                                                               “ First, I need you to make a call; I’ve run out of favors. They need confirmation at BUPERS that this is an official investigation,” Scalia said.

“Ok, let me know what you find out after I make the call.”

The Chief had three names to check: one was out to sea-had been for months; the other two left the Navy: one was living in Tennessee, the last was a New Orleans insurance adjuster. Scalia called the New Orleans man and introduced himself, “I’m helping out the San Diego Police with the murder investigation of three Philippine women.”

“I heard about it; I guess you found out I married a Filipina. Am I a suspect?” His tone indicated that his question wasn’t serious.

“No; are you still married?”

“Sure am, third kid on the way. My wife wasn’t like the other bar girls. She was sweet, didn’t put out.”

“We got the names of two others: Reynolds and Bassett, both were on the Patrick Henry and both married Philippine women. They check out. Is there anyone we could have missed?”

“I knew Reynolds, not the other guy. I don’t recall anyone else from the Henry serious with a girl from the Philippines.”

Chang was discouraged after Scalia’s call. All the leads were going nowhere. The only recourse was to go through the entire crew roster since the ship was commissioned, and it would take months- all on Cook’s recollection of a strange acting guy who had a ship’s hat in his back pocket.

“Thanks for your help, Chief, the rest is tedious police work.”

“If you need any …,” Chang hung up before Scalia finished the sentence. For the next three weeks there were no new murders of Philippine women.

The rain came off the Pacific and drenched the town steaming the concrete and tar. Scalia was on the way to the Laundromat when the phone rang.

“Chief Scalia, this is Warrant Officer Litori, we talked about the Patrick Henry.”

“Yes, sir, I remember.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“At a dead end for now; anything come to mind that can help?”

“Chief, you’re checking out the ship’s company, right, those with permanent orders?”

“Yes, sir, we are.”

“Chief, what about TAD?”

Scalia called Chang. “We didn’t think about sailors assigned TAD-temporary active duty during ship’s Southeast Asia tour.”

“What do you mean by temporary, and who comes aboard for a short time?”

“Reservists, Naval Academy students and spooks.”

“What are spooks?”

“Naval Security Group-SECGRU. Reservists come on for about two weeks maybe a month at the most and it doesn’t happen much outside of the states. Academy guys stay on board for a summer. But spooks come aboard from a shore base and can stay for as long as six months.”

“Chief, we went through the whole ship at that time and only had three with a Philippine wife, why should we add these few?” Chang was unconvinced.

“There are a few things about spooks that make it worthwhile. These guys come aboard, deal with secret stuff, don’t stand watches or get involved in unreps and other ships activities.”

“In what; is there a dictionary for you guys?”

Scalia continued, “These sailors don’t get close to the crew, get shuffled between ships so they don’t even get close to each other. They get lonely. So maybe a bar girl is more important to them.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I had one working for me.”

“Were you a spook?” Chang asked.

Scalia laughed. “No, I had an O-brancher-that’s the rating for communications technicians in the Security Group- who worked for me for a while in the Philippines.  This guy married a Filipina and couldn’t stay in his rate. Spooks have a high clearance; the Navy checks out their family, so when one marries a woman who is not an American citizen, whose relatives live in the boonies, the Navy doesn’t know if he’s suddenly a security risk, maybe has Commie in-laws . This guy was really pissed off. It was a big comedown from being a spook to grinding and painting ships in the yard. I remember thinking his marriage wasn’t going to last.”

“So if,” Chang speculated, “a spook on board the Patrick Henry got married because his girlfriend got knocked up and had to give up his job, he would be pretty angry.”

“I’ll bet the guy we are looking for was a second class or first class petty officer, a guy who had re-upped, was making the Navy a career,” Scalia added. “ He’s got seven or eight years in, hopes to make chief and put in twenty years as a spook; suddenly in a new rate, no chance of making chief, lost his clearance and buddies in SECGRU- a lot to make him upset.   

With a call to National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, Scalia got the records of Petty Officer First Class Dennis Landers, who had enlisted in the Navy eight years before his assignment to a naval base in Taiwan. He was assigned to the Patrick Henry in the fall of 1969. The ship was in Subic for repairs for nearly two months beginning in January of 1970.Landers married a Philippine woman and was transferred permanently to the Naval Repair Center, Subic Bay.  After a divorce, he left the Navy a year later and his last address was San Diego.

Scalia called Chang a few days later. “Did you find him?”

“We got a name,” Chang answered, “but no address. He moved from the location he gave the Navy. No DMV record and we checked the shipyards and private docks figuring he’d get a job working around boats. But no luck.”

“Lots of guys keep their driver’s license from their home state or a port state for awhile. I think you are making the wrong assumption about his job.”

“What do you mean?”

“He probably only worked on ship repair for a few months; that’s not the kind of work he’s qualified for. The spooks had to repair their own equipment, some of it was pretty sophisticated electronics.”

“So he’s likely with an electronics company.”

“Or maybe a store that sells ship’s equipment- radios, sonar radar, things like that.”

 

Chang checked local companies and stores that sold and serviced ship’s gear. One owner of a shop near a marina told Chang that the name wasn’t familiar but the description from Lander’s Navy records was.

“He works freelance. Comes in once a week and picks up equipment to be repaired. He’s really good, especially with radios,” the owner said.

On Thursday, Chang waited in an unmarked car across from Nautical Directions on Brewers Street. The sun was level with the dockside buildings at the marina and the wind stretched the flags on the masts of the harbormaster’s cottage. A man turned the corner and moved quickly into the store. Chang opened his door and the others in back-up cars across the street moved toward the shop entrance. Landers had an armful of gear when Chang approached and put handcuffs on him.

The former petty officer was being booked when Scalia called.

“Did he admit to the killings?”

“After a while,” Chang answered. “His wife told him the child likely wasn’t his, left him and he was stewing for a long time and couldn’t find meaningful work, like a lot of stories. He decided to murder to get back at the type of woman who destroyed his life. Everything was there, the knife, some blood on clothes in a closet. The shrinks and lawyers can sort it out from this point.”

“Guess my work is done?” Scalia said.

After Scalia hung up, he felt regret like the feeling at the end of tour aboard a good ship. He put on his sneakers and went to jog around the high school track.

The End