[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P.

by Robert Thornhill

  “Why would someone send a riddle to the police department?” the captain asked.

  Riddle!

  Of course, the first thing that popped into my pitiful mind was Batman and his relationship with the evil Riddler of Gotham City. I decided against mentioning that to the captain.

  But then something else clicked. “I saw a death by hanging in the paper yesterday,” I said. “Myron Blanchard.”

  “Yes, but the coroner has ruled that as a suicide. The only thing in the room was a chair that he probably stood on then kicked away. There was no evidence of foul play.”

  I looked at the riddle again. “Did they find a puddle of water below him?”

  “Hmm, I don’t recall anything like that in the report, but I’ll check with the officers on the scene. Better leave this note with me until we can figure out what’s going on.”

  “Any chance I could take a look at the scene? I’m sure the first officers didn’t miss anything, but with this note, I’d like to take a look around.”

  “Sure,” he replied.

  So Ox and I headed for the West Bottoms, and I told him about the note.

  The scene of the hanging was an old storage warehouse that was part of the Overseas Exports complex. It was several blocks away from the main office, and according to the initial report it was seldom used. Empty, secluded, sparingly used. A perfect location for a suicide --- or a murder.

  We entered the room and found it exactly as had been described in the report. It was totally empty except for the overturned chair. The ceiling rafters were at least ten feet above the floor and could not have been reached with just a chair. A ladder would have been needed, but where was the ladder?

  We studied the riddle and compared it to the room. There were discrepancies. The riddle described a locked room. The crime scene door was unlocked. The riddle said the room was empty. The crime scene had a chair. The riddle had a puddle of water under the victim. The crime scene --- had a drain!

  “Let’s pretend the crime scene is like in the riddle,” I said. “Maybe the note is trying to tell us to look beyond the physical evidence. If the door is locked, then no one but the victim could have been present. If there is no chair or ladder, how did the victim get enough height to hang himself? And what’s with the water? Where did that come from?”

  “Maybe his bladder let loose when he died,” Ox offered.

  “The riddle doesn’t say urine, and even if it was, that doesn’t solve the other two puzzles.”

  “Okay, where can water come from?” I asked. “There’s no water source in the room. There’s no container that could have held the water. Where else can water come from?”

  “Ice is water,” Ox said.

  “Well, yeah! Ice is solid water. Solid means you could stand on it. You could get high enough above the floor so that when the ice melted you would have no footing and strangle. Let’s apply that theory to our crime scene.

  “A large block of ice is brought into the room. The rope is hung from the rafter. The victim is placed on the ice. The ice melts and the victim strangles, but in our scene the water disappears down the drain and leaves no evidence.”

  “If he’s on a block of ice, what’s with the chair?” Ox asked.

  I thought for a minute. “The chair is to make it look like a suicide. No ice, just an overturned chair. It’s what you would find at most suicide scenes.”

  “The guy’s hands weren’t tied,” Ox said. “If they leave him just standing there on the ice, what’s to keep him from untying the rope?”

  “He must have been unconscious,” I replied. “In obvious suicides, where the cause of death is strangulation, they don’t perform complete autopsies. I’d be willing to bet they will find something in his bloodstream that put him out.”

  “Damn!” Ox muttered. “We got us a murder!”

  I took a photo of the floor drain with my cell phone, and we hotfooted it back to the precinct to tell the captain our theory.

  “Sounds like a stretch to me,” he said. “Only one way to find out.” He called the morgue and ordered a complete autopsy, including a tox screen. “We’ll know something tomorrow. And if your theory is correct, who sent this riddle, and how did they know?”

  Good question.

  The next day, the tox screen came back with evidence that Blanchard had chloroform in his system. It was enough for the captain to reopen the case, and the headline in the newspaper that evening read, Police Reopen Blanchard Case. Evidence Points To Murder, Not Suicide.

  The next morning the captain called me aside again. Another letter had been sent to the station addressed to me.

  The note inside read, “Good work, Walter. Now follow this clue. ‘He who has it doesn’t tell it. He who takes it doesn’t know it. He who knows it doesn’t want it.’ Good luck.”

  “Good grief!” Shorty said. “Now what? Why can’t they come right out and tell us what they want us to know? Why all the mystery?”

  “Well, one thing is certain,” I replied. “They want to remain anonymous. I think someone is trying to point us in the right direction without implicating themselves. Maybe they’re afraid if they come forward it would put them in danger.”

  “I think you’re on the right track, Walt. We’ll get this note to the detectives and see what they make of it.”

  The rest of the day was routine police work.

  When I returned home that evening, I poured a glass of Arbor Mist and plopped down on my porch swing. There’s something about those old swings hanging from the ceiling on chains that just seem to take the wrinkles out of a day. I have found that I do some of my best thinking just sitting there, going back and forth, with my feet dangling down.

  It wasn’t long before I was joined by the professor and Willie. Oh well, so much for peace, quiet, and contemplation. I figured that since my private meditation had been disrupted I might as well share our riddle with my friends. I got two more glasses and shared my Arbor Mist. Sometimes just bouncing ideas around with others brings out a point of view you would not have seen by yourself.

  After I read the riddle and put it in the context of the murder, we all fell silent as we tried to find an explanation.

  Willie spoke first. “I got it! It’s de clap! I had de clap once. And if you got it you sho don’t tell no one. If you get it, you sho don’t know it till your pecker starts burnin’. And if you got it, you sho don’t want it.” He beamed with pride.

  The Professor and I looked at each other. “Well,” I said, “it certainly does fit the clues, but I’m not sure how it would fit into our case. We’ll keep it in mind, but maybe we should keep on thinking.”

  Willie was crestfallen. He had shared his clap story for nothing.

  The Professor spoke. “I think the key is, ‘He who takes it.’ In Willie’s example and in any transmitted disease, you don’t take it; you get it. It’s transmitted, not actually received. I think we’re talking about some tangible, physical object that can be passed from hand to hand.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If you have it and you know there’s a problem with it, you don’t admit it. You give it to someone, but they don’t know it has a problem. And if they find out about the problem, they want to get rid of it.”

  I remembered an old Arthur Godfrey tune from back in the fifties. It was called The Thing. It was about a guy walking along the beach who found a box. He opened it up, and the song says he found a “boom, boom, boom.” He tried every way in the world to get rid of it, but nobody would take it. The song, of course, never said what it was.

  My mind is filled with useless information.

  “Try this,” I said. “A guy is selling apples. He finds an apple with a worm. He doesn’t tell anyone about it. Instead he puts it in the bottom of a basket of good apples. A guy comes along and buys the basket of apples, but he doesn’t know there’s one in the bottom with a worm. He gets home, takes the apples from the basket, and finds the one with the worm. Of course he doesn’t want it. But like Willie’
s clap, it fits the clues but doesn’t really fit in our case.”

  “I think you’re on the right track,” the Professor said. “Now we just have to find some physical object that makes sense within the context of your case.”

  We thought some more.

  “Maybe it has to do with the products they import,” the professor said. “What if someone purchased an expensive collector’s item and found out it was a knockoff?”

  “Hmm, don’t think that fits either,” I said. “First, Overseas Exports doesn’t deal in collectables. Everything they buy is mass-produced. It’s all junk to start with, and the retailers know what they’re getting. And if someone thought they were being ripped off, why not just sue? Why concoct such an elaborate scheme to kill the guy?”

  “How ‘bout dis?” Willie asked. “Back in de day, when I was boostin’ stuff, I had dis nice little TV set. I sold it to a guy who paid me wif a rubber check. He knowed it was bad when he give it to me. I sho didn’t know it was bad when I took it, and I sho didn’t want it when I found out. I had to go thump on the guy to get my money.”

  From the mouths of babes!

  “That’s it!” the Professor and I shouted at once. “Not checks but counterfeit money!”

  An import/export business was the perfect place to launder funny money. It was possible that something went wrong with the scheme and someone was cleaning up loose ends.

  I couldn’t wait to get to the station to share our idea with the captain. He thought the idea had merit, but to his knowledge, there had been no reports of counterfeit money being spread around the city.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Unfortunately, within our government bureaucracy, sometimes the right hand doesn’t tell the left hand what’s going on. A counterfeit investigation would normally be under the jurisdiction of the Treasury Department and more times than not, the Feds don’t share.

  This was bigger than Shorty could handle, so he took it to the chief. The chief made a call to the Federal Building, and the Treasury boys grudgingly admitted they were investigating a counterfeit ring.

  Bingo!

  The chief told the Feds about the riddles and our theory of how they connected, and a joint task force was set up to investigate the murder/counterfeit operation.

  I felt kind of torqued. A major crime investigation was underway as a direct result of three old friends sitting on a porch, sharing a glass of Arbor Mist, and shooting the bull.

  CHAPTER 24

  The entire squad was gathered for the morning briefing when Captain Short entered the room. He briefed us on the joint task force and assigned several officers to participate. I was disappointed that Ox and I weren’t invited.

  “Gentlemen, we’re going to be conducting an undercover sting operation, and we need a volunteer.” Shorty turned to me and said, “Why, thank you, Walt, for volunteering.”

  I didn’t remember raising my hand. “Exactly what did I just volunteer for?” I asked.

  “A prostitution ring is operating in the downtown area. We think it’s coming from the Red Garter Club. We need to have you frequent the club and see if you can get one of the girls to solicit you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you fit the demographic for the typical ‘john.’ There are two types of guys who use the strip clubs for their jollies, blue-collar workers and seniors. It’s the perfect place if you’re looking for a good time on a limited budget. The wealthy don’t need strip clubs. If you’ve got the dough, you can find action at less public places.”

  “Okay, so I’m a senior. Why not get one of the younger guys to be a construction worker?”

  “Well, Walt, you sort of fit the other demographic we’re looking for.”

  “Oh really? And what would that be?”

  “Well, you look sort of…um, needy,” he replied.

  “Needy!” Just what every guy wants to hear. “What about Vince? He’s old too.”

  “Yeah, but Vince looks like he could go out and get anything he wants.” A muffled giggle spread throughout the room.

  Wonderful! Rub salt in the wound.

  “Gosh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maggie’s been real good about all this so far, but I don’t think she’s going to be real excited about me going to a strip club.”

  Maggie had been okay with me getting punched, pummeled, and shot, but this was a whole different deal.

  Women have a tendency to get their panties in a wad if they catch you looking around. Now, I’m certainly no prude, and I have trouble with the clerics that preach hellfire, and brimstone. It’s one of those things you have to take on faith.

  I’m more of a practical guy, and I’m scared to death of the old “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” I have seen friends and acquaintances emasculated, both emotionally and financially, by vindictive females. I wanted no part of that action!

  Besides, I love Maggie, and I would never hurt her. I never want the old country song, “A good hearted woman in love with a good timin’ man” to apply to us.

  “Maggie will understand,” the captain said. “Besides, it’s your job.”

  It turned out that my job was to patronize the Red Garter, poke some dollar bills in some G-strings, buy a few lap dances, and hope I looked needy enough that one of the girls in the prostitution ring would offer her services.

  I had to stay undercover until money changed hands, at which time I would say the code sentence, “I need to go to the bathroom first,” and the guys listening to me through my wire would pop in for the bust.

  All in a day’s work.

  Of course, the next day, Maggie called and wanted to get together after work. I told her I was going to be busy the next few evenings in an undercover operation. When she wanted details, I told her it was a sensitive operation that I wasn’t at liberty to discuss.

  Not exactly a lie. It definitely was going to be sensitive. I just didn’t realize how sensitive until I got involved.

  We were all set up. I had put on my ‘needy’ clothes, and the wire was taped in place. I was given a wad of dollar bills and three hundred dollars in twenties. Ox and Vince were in the black and white a block away, listening.

  Another reason I never patronized these establishments was the economics involved. Lap dances cost twenty bucks each and last a whole three minutes. That’s roughly twenty dances an hour. Four hundred bucks! Do the math. The only other place it costs that much to get screwed is your lawyer’s office.

  I’d much rather spend the money on a nice evening out with Maggie, even if I did have to tip Rolph.

  I walked in the Red Garter, and my ears were assaulted by the thump, thump, thump of the bass on the song currently blasting at approximately the decibel level of a jet engine. A scantily clad young lady was on stage gyrating to the music, and other girls were busy grinding away on needy laps.

  I looked around the room and figured I must be lost. I thought Silicon Valley was in California. I had definitely landed in ‘perky city.’

  Prior to entering the establishment, I had a conversation with Mr. Winkie and explained, as forcefully as I could, that we were on a work assignment and that he was to behave himself. To my dismay, I realized Mr. Winkie had a mind of his own.

  It brought to mind a Robin Williams’s quote: “God gave men both a penis and a brain, but unfortunately, not enough blood supply to run both at the same time.”

  Control, control.

  I took a seat at the stage just as the next dancer appeared. It’s amazing what sometimes pops into your mind out of nowhere. I suddenly thought of Elvis in the movie Roustabout where he sings, “I went and bought myself a ticket and sat down in the very first row. Little Egypt came out struttin’ wearing nuttin’ but a button and a bow.”

  And there she was.

  I watched the other guys for a few minutes and realized there is certain etiquette in garter stuffing. If you want a closer look, you hold up your dollar and Ms. Wiggles comes over, gives you a close up, and you deposit the bill in her gar
ter or G-string. I finally found the courage to hold up a dollar, and sure enough, it worked.

  After a while a girl came up and sat beside me. “Hey there, big boy,” she purred. “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”

  Mae West humor.

  Actually, it was my roll of dollar bills, but I let her think what she wanted.

  “How about a dance, sweetie?” she whispered in my ear.

  Oh boy! Remember, it’s just a job. For the good of the city. Civic duty and all that.

  She led me to a chair in the back of the room, and the Rolling Stones I Can’t Get No Satisfaction started playing. I hoped that would be the case.

  I had read about prisoners of war suffering intense interrogation and torture. They survived by focusing their minds on pleasant thoughts of home. As Ms. Wiggles gyrated on my lap, I thought of Maggie.

  The evening progressed, and I alternated between the stage and the chair. Suddenly the lights flashed off and on, the music stopped, and the bartender announced over the intercom, “All right, gentlemen, this is the moment you have been waiting for. The Red Garter is proud to present our feature attraction, the amazing Electra.” A round of applause echoed through the room.

  A fanfare blared, the music started, and out came Electra. Yikes! She had long, coal black hair flowing over her shoulders and black eye shadow and liner so thick it must have been applied with a spoon. She wore black pasties and a black leather G-string that left little to the imagination, and she wore a studded black leather collar around her neck. To top it off, she carried a whip! If Lily Munster had been reincarnated as a stripper, this would be her.

  Now as I said before, I’m no prude, but I’ve never understood this S&M punishment stuff. To me lovemaking should be sweet and tender and certainly not involve pain. But who am I to judge others? Remember, I’m the guy who thinks Arbor Mist is a fine wine.

  The amazing Electra began her act, and right away I could see she had developed a special talent. Instead of guys poking dollars in her G-string, they would hold them up by the tip, and Electra would snatch them out of their fingers with a flick of her whip.