by DL Cook
Libby shrugged and rubbed her husband's protruding love handles to comfort him. She didn't want him to be stressed out.
Officer Flannery returned with a man in a tweed jacket.
“That's not Hensten,” Don said. Not that he remembered everyone's name or what they looked like. “Is it?” he said after a moment's doubt.
“Finnemore Dunn,” the man said, taking out a notepad from his pocket and a pen from behind his ear. He looked like one of those movie drunks to Don.
“What do you want? Who let this man in here?”
“Uh,” Flannery stammered, “he said 'freedom of the press.'”
“You let a journalist interfere with a potential workplace infraction?” Don fumed. Libby comforted him as best as she could, but she prepared for the screaming to follow. “We're the police! What does freedom of the press have to do with us? No press in here!” He pointed to the sign on the wall, spilling some of his beer with the motion.
Flannery tried to escort the man out, but Dunn resisted. “You have a possible murder on your hands and you're wasting police resources on a vehicle use infraction?” Dunn demanded.
“This is none of your business. How the police department conducts its affairs is my purview, not yours. Get this man out of my sight!”
Libby wondered if Don already read that day's newspaper editorial, penned by Dunn. The article excoriated the department over the recent and dramatic rise in murders. Now Dunn would have material for another article. She rushed after him to make sure he hadn't recorded anything.
After Don finished interrogating Hanson, who'd been out with a cold and just came back to work that morning, Libby pulled her husband aside. “Now don't yell at me, but I think maybe that reporter has a point.”
“Damn liberal media,” Don grumbled.
“Maybe we should be investigating the two latest murders. The people might think—”
“I don't care what the people think,” Don said, but from his tone Libby knew that she persuaded him.
Mort Freeman stood over the body, a sandwich in hand. Libby thought it was peanut butter and jelly. Her tummy rumbled, which alerted the coroner to their presence.
“So what was so important?” Don said.
“Sandwich anyone?” Mort replied with a question.
“Yes please,” Libby said.
Mort opened one of the refrigerated chambers where he kept his food. He assembled the ingredients and proceeded to make two sandwiches.
Don lightly slapped down Libby's hand. “You can't eat that. It's disgusting.”
Libby pouted. Mort shrugged and took a bite.
“Why are we here?” Don asked.
“Ah,” Mort tried to chew more quickly. He held up an index finger so they would give him a moment. “Gerald Oakley, this fine specimen here, suffered from anhidrosis.”
“What's that mean in English?”
“He couldn't sweat.”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?” Don said.
“The boots recovered from his apartment, the ones with the curator's blood on them, have sweat inside. He couldn't have worn them, unless he shared with someone else. Besides the sweat problem, the shoes wouldn't have fit him. They're too small. Look at these clown feet,” Mort jiggled Oakley's toes. “Size fourteen. The shoes with the blood on them, however, are size ten.”
“So you're saying he was framed?”
“That would be my theory, but you're the detectives.” Mort started on the second sandwich while Libby looked on hungrily. “I've taken the liberty of sending the boots to Peggy for finger print testing.”
“She's been busy with other stuff,” Don said. “I'll get her on it.” He phoned the forensics department.
“Here's my report,” Mort handed Libby a stack of sheets with peanut butter and jelly prints on them. “Death occurred when his neck broke, most likely on impact with the cement after tumbling over a car.” He had drawn a little cartoon in the corner of his report. Mort thumbed through the pages, animating a stick figure and poorly drawn car.
“Excellent work,” Don said. On their way out he dialed Tom for a status report. “He says he's working very hard, but it sounds like he's at the gym or something.”
“My bro at the gym?”
“Yeah, more likely he's in the bathroom.”
Marcy analyzed the tread patterns when Peggy's van pulled up.
“What are you doing here?” Peggy said over the mechanical hum of the wheelchair lift.
“I'm helping my son do his police work,” Marcy replied. “Clearly a suicide. Involving a bicycle.”
Peggy snorted. “Clearly an automobile. A bike does not have an axle, or such thick tires, as is evident here. A bike wouldn't leave such widely spaced tracks. You need two wheels for that. Front wheel drive, I'd say.”
Marcy snorted back. “Two wheels? Of course. Clearly. And guess what has two wheels? A bi-cyle. Bi means two. Cycle means wheels. Q.E.D.”
Peggy closed her eyes and shook her head. “And that makes for a suicide how?”
“Ah, well that's the mystery.”
“You don't say,” Peggy scoffed.
“What are you doing here anyway, Margaret? Shouldn't you have collected all of the evidence before the body was taken away? That's how I'd do it. But I'm a professional.”
“Alright Mrs. Klump, that's enough. Kindly move aside and let me do the job they pay me for.”
“Ah, so you're avoiding the question.”
“I'll have you know that I did collect samples immediately after the crime was reported. They are missing, however, and so I had to come back here. I hope that you have not destroyed the evidence.”
“Oh my. How dare you...”
“Can you get her out of here?” Peggy whispered to Duncan.
He knew the drill. “Mrs. Klump, check out that shiny sign over there.”
“Oh yes. It is awful bright. I'll get to the bottom of it,” Marcy wandered in that direction.
Tom, meanwhile, finished a doughnut. Perhaps one day he could have a shop. There'd be no one yelling at him about eating the merchandise. Maybe Don would, but he was always yelling about everything.
A young woman crossed the street in a hurry. He hadn't asked her yet. “Ma'am, excuse me, ma'am?”
She saw him waving, hesitated at his uniform, and made a run for it. Tom's huffed after her, his big belly bouncing up, down and sideways. Maybe she didn't see him? Why was she in such a hurry? No matter, he smiled and made his eyes wider. The just swallowed and partially chewed doughnut made its way up his throat. Tom had to stop or he'd throw up. When he recovered, the girl was gone.
Oh well. That was that. He found his mother and drove to the station. It was almost past lunch time anyway.
“You found no one?” Don asked between bites of his sandwich. “How could that be?”
“Hey bro. Hi mama! Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” Libby asked.
“Sure,” Tom and Marcy said.
As they ate, Marcy told them all about her day. How she investigated a brightly lit sign, how Tom took her shopping—
“Wait a minute. Klump. You were supposed to canvas the area where the artist got hit by a car,” Don got up.
“I did that too,” Tom replied. “Can I have another sandwich please?”
“Sure bro,” Libby reached for the bread.
“No you may not,” Don stayed her hand. “How long did you look for witnesses?”
“Um, an hour,” Tom guessed.
“I'd say around ten to fifteen minutes,” Marcy said.
“Klump!”
“What?”
“Get back out there. Knock on doors. Talk to the shopkeepers. Someone must have seen something. Lucus, go with him. You're partners now. I want Klump to learn.”
“Sure thing, Don,” deputy Chalmers said. He threw his paper plate on top of the overflowing garbage pile that covered the trash cans. “Thanks for the sandwiches, Libby.”
Tom wanted to eat and play video
games. A nap would've been nice too. But Don had to send Lucus with him. Tom grumbled under his breath as he drove. Deputy Chalmers tailed in his own car.
They didn't split up as Tom had hoped, so Tom switched to plan B: feign ignorance of the simplest things, claim or demonstrate an inability to do anything, or do things in such a shoddy manner that his frustrated companion would insist on taking over. That's why Libby tied Tom's shoes the first twenty years of his life. That's why Don did his taxes for him and hooked up all his electronic equipment. And that's why Lucus Chalmers would do all the canvasing while Tom zoned out beside him.
Tom stood slack jawed as Lucus knocked on apartment doors. The residents that answered claimed to see nothing. A couple of old ladies insisted that the two young gents stay a while and have a cookie while they tried to recollect. On both occasions Tom interrupted Lucus' excuses and accepted the food.
The girl in one of the shops looked familiar. “You're the one I chased earlier,” Tom made his smile face. She cringed behind the counter, her eyes searching for escape.
“What do you mean you chased her? Miss, we're just going around asking questions about the hit and run. We're wondering if you saw something,” Lucus raised his hands to calm her.
“I didn't see nothing,” the young lady said. “I swear.”
“Relax,” Lucus said. “We're the good guys. We just want to know what happened. You saw something, didn't you?”
“You're not here to kill me?”
“Why would you even think that? Do you fear for your life because of what you saw?”
She nodded.
“What did you see?” Lucus' voice expressed concern. Tom would have to practice that.
She looked around.
“You don't feel safe here? We can take you to the station,” Lucus suggested. “We'll protect you there.”
The girl nodded.
“Wait. I have an important question,” Tom said. “Is a large Coke in meal number three included in the price, or is that separate?”
“Separate,” the girl said.
“Too expensive then,” Tom said.
They escorted her out of the sandwich shop. There Tom attempted to handcuff her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Chalmers asked. “It'll be alright, sweetheart. Don't be afraid.”
“Handcuffs,” Tom said. “When we take people to the station, they wear handcuffs. I heard Don—”
“We handcuff dangerous law breakers,” Chalmers tried to explain, “not witnesses.”
“Handcuffs are police procedure,” Tom insisted.
Lucus sighed. “Might as well get this over with. Sorry, miss. Just get in the back here. I'll be right behind in my car. Straight to the station, right Tom?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have reconsidered my position on meal number three.”
“But she's already in the car.”
Tom considered it. “You're right. There'd be no one to ring it up.”
They were on their way. Tom radioed ahead that he was bringing a witness. Don congratulated him for a job well done. “See what happens when you put a little effort in?”
Tom thought about stopping by McCaliker's Diner to celebrate. He had a gift certificate in his pocket. Lucus flashed his lights and said over the radio, “straight to the station” when Tom put his blinker on. He just couldn't catch a break.
The girl behind him became talkative. “You're not as scary as I first thought. Before I thought you were him, trying to kill me too. Cause he was wearing the s—”
“Are you telling me what you saw?” Tom spoke over her.
“Yeah.”
“Don't do that. You can't tell me.”
“Why not?”
“Police procedure. Because Lucus interfered with the process—God I hate that guy—you weren't properly Mirandized. So I can't hear what you have to say until Don says it's okay.”
“Um. Okay. I'll be quiet then.”
“Excellent.”
A gloved hand gripped an icepick. It stabbed, sending shavings flying in all directions. A door creaked open and a man stepped into the darkness. It wasn't the cold that made him shiver.
The icepick plunged into frozen flesh. The hand left it there like a flagpole. “You have something to tell me?” a woman's voice said.
“Yes ma'am,” the man stammered.
“What is it?” the icepick was exchanged for a longer, sharper instrument. It glinted in the dim light.
“There might be a witness,” he said.
“Might be?”
“I mean, yeah. They have a witness. Some girl. They're bringing her in right now. It's no big deal.”
“No big deal?” the voice cut deeper than the cold.
“I'll tell him to take care of it,” the man stammered. “But will he? He's—”
“Oh he will. For his daughters' and wife's sake.”
The man moved quickly around the vats, trying his best to avoid the frozen eyes of the dead staring up into the darkness.
Libby and Don arrived at Peggy's office, a cramped place with all sorts of equipment everywhere. Don knocked down a microscope. Libby caught it near the floor.
“What you got for us?” Don carefully backed away from the table, only to crash into something else with his butt.
“How about we go out into the hall?” Peggy suggested. She rolled out without waiting for them to agree. “So there are a number of things. First, the car.”
“No. That can wait. Did you read the paper today? I have a mind to come downtown and raid their office. See how they can write their stories without their fancy pens and typewriters.” Don turned red.
“It's alright, my snugglepuss,” Libby tried to calm him.
“Not in public,” Don hissed at her.
Peggy did her best to suppress a laugh. “The two are related, Don. And in more ways than one. So, as to the car, the flashers on the roof had a bit of cloth on them. The cloth matched Gerald Oakley's sweater. There's a rip in Oakley's sweater.” She pointed to a photograph. “That's the first thing. Second, Mort Freeman sent over the artist's boots for analysis.”
“What did you find?” Libby asked.
“It's what I didn't find, actually. There were no fingerprints. You'd expect at least a couple of partials. People tie their shows and so on. But there was nothing. You know where else I didn't find prints? In the damaged squad car. No prints on the outside or inside. The boots and the car were wiped down.”
“By the same person?” Don asked.
“No way to tell. Could be one. Could be more than one.”
“So, so, um, um, someone planted evidence in Oakley's apartment to implicate him in the curator's death. Then that same person, or someone helping him, stole a car from the station and used it to kill the artist,” Libby mused.
“And then they tried to cover their tracks by returning the car and wiping it down,” Don finished for her.
“Not only that. Someone stole my analysis of the tread patterns and tampered with my samples. I suppose the car could've been taken and returned by an outsider, but for someone to mess with my stuff they'd have to know where to look. They'd have to know about what I've collected.” She paused. “I think we have a mole.”
A loud crash startled them.
“Sorry about that,” Don picked his gun up from the floor.
After Don finished boasting about how he was right all along to investigate the damaged squad car, they found Tom in the conference room eating a muffin.
“Where's the witness?”
“Secured in the interrogation room,” crumbs flew everywhere.
Don grunted and Libby smiled at her brother.
The girl had her head down. Her hair covered part of the table.
“Hello, thank you for coming,” Don said. He looked to Libby when the interviewee didn't respond. “If she's drunk or on drugs, she may not be very reliable,” he said.
“Hello?” Libby approach
ed the young woman.
“She was awake when I put her in there,” Tom had a new muffin in his hand.
Libby gently shook the witness. The body moved back and forth, slack. Libby felt for a pulse. Not finding it, she lifted the girl's hair. The face was frozen in terror. A ligature mark wrapped around her throat. Two more were on her bluish fingers. “She's still warm,” Libby said.
“Holy shiitake,” Tom said, “is she dead?”
Don looked to Libby, who nodded.
“Who drove her here? You?”
“Yeah,” Tom shielded his eyes with his massive palms so as not to see the dead body.
“Did she tell you anything about what she saw?”
“I tried to ask her, but she invoked her right to remain silent.”
“But she wasn't under arrest! Did you tell her that?”
“Yeah.”
“And she still wouldn't talk?”
“Nope. Sorry. She did imply that it was a cop, though.”
“And you didn't see fit to warn us that someone at the station might be a potential danger to her? And then you left her all alone?”
“My bad.”
“Alright,” Don said, suddenly sober. “Klump, get Lucus over here, then call Peggy and Mort. Then go stand by the front door and let no one in or out. No exceptions. Got it?”
“Got it,” Tom rushed away.
“There's a killer in the building,” Don said.
“You wanted me, Don?” Lucus stuck his head in the door. “Is she...”
“Yeah. Lucus, I have a job for you. Assemble the officers into two men teams. Have them guard all of the exits. No one in or out. Everyone else should gather in the conference room until further notice. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“After you do that, compile a report of everyone who's out of the station right now, and everyone who's supposed to be here. Okay?”
“Yes sir.” Deputy Chalmers marched out.
Don saw Flannery in the hall. “Hey Flannery! Go with Chalmers. Don't leave his side.”
“You got it, Don.”
“The mole,” Libby said, walking around the body.
“Yep. Only one reason he'd do this, kill the witness.”
“Because she saw him kill Oakley?” Libby said.
Don was having trouble with the special latex free gloves Libby had gotten for him. “Oh. That's even better than what I was thinking.”
“Which was?”
“Never mind that. We'll go with your idea for the motive.”
