by DL Cook
“So this must also be the guy that planted the evidence on the artist, and shot the curator.”
“Who could it be?” Don gave up on the gloves and scratched his head. “Someone that could scare a person to death. Do we have anyone that scary working here?”
“There's Ben.”
“Hmm. No, he's just ugly.”
“Yeah, you're right. He's got those green things in his teeth...”
“I never noticed that. I was thinking about the crusty stuff in his ears.”
“That's Joe.”
“Oh yeah.”
The discussion continued like that until Peggy rolled in.
“We'll have to wait for Mort to confirm it, but looks like suffocation. A cord or something was wrapped around her neck from behind. Our mole?”
“That's what we think.”
“Any idea who it could be?”
“I have a plan to find out,” Don stroked his chin, “but for now I hope setting everyone up in teams of two will prevent the culprit from getting away.”
“What's your plan?” Libby asked.
“Lucus is assembling the officers. Most will be in the conference room. We're gonna go there and by each of the exits. We'll let slip that we found some evidence on who killed the dead girl and Peggy left it to be analyzed in one of her contraptions. We'll set up a video camera at her office, and see who goes looking. Everyone's a suspect, except us, of course.”
“Sounds good,” Peggy said. “What if it's Duncan? I need his help setting the trap.”
“Have some fake evidence. Something that'll stain his fingers if he takes it. If no one else comes looking in your office, Duncan will be the prime suspect, with the ultimate proof being his stained fingers, should he try to tamper with the 'evidence.'”
“Give me ten minutes,” Peggy left to make the preparations.
Don's phone rang. “Mettler-Klump. Uh huh.” Don sighed. “I'll be right there.” He put his phone away. “Your brother's not letting Mort into the building. Will you be okay by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Don't let anyone get behind you.”
“Don't worry my honey pie.”
Don kissed her and left. He was met in the hall by Finnemore Dunn.
“You have another murder victim in there?” the reporter asked.
“None of your damn business,” Don said. “Why is this man unsupervised? You two, put him in a cell.”
“Right away, chief.” They dragged him away.
Dunn kicked and screamed. He threatened to sue.
“It's for your own safety. There's a killer on the loose,” Don said. He added another suspect to the list. Dunn had been poking around the station all day, possibly the day before. He could've stolen the squad car and killed Oakley. He could've scared the curator to death, perhaps threatened to do a report on how the curator stole the painting with Oakley, then shot the man and framed the artist. His motive? Newspaper sales. His ego was too large for this town. He wanted to move up to the big city. What better way than reporting about three murders that he committed himself?
Don came to the lobby. “Klump, let Mort in.”
“Sorry Mettler. Can't do that. I'm under strict orders not to let anyone in or out.”
“I gave you those orders.”
“Yes.”
“Well now I'm modifying them. Let Mort in.”
“Sorry. You said 'no exceptions.'”
Don sighed and tried to get past his brother in law. Firm arms blocked the way. Don tried the other side but bounced off a big belly. “I'm not kidding around, Klump. Let me unlock the door.”
“Sorry. But Mort isn't authorized into the building.”
“But you're the one who called him here!”
Tom shrugged. Don made as if to smack him, but the big man did not flinch.
Don sighed again. “Fine. You stay here and do as you're doing.”
“No problem, Mettler.”
Don pulled his phone out. “Mort, we have a problem with the front door. I'll meet you at the side.”
They went through the entire building. To Mort's mystification, Don kept telling him about how Peggy had found evidence, which was now being analyzed, unguarded, in her office and marked “critical evidence concerning the dead girl.”
“I heard you the first six times. Are you okay, Don? I'm starting to wonder if you're having a stroke.”
“Hoping for a stroke of luck,” Don replied. “And here we are,” he led the coroner and his two helpers into the interrogation room. “Will you guys be okay on your own now?”
“Uh huh,” Mort put his glasses on and knelt by the body. His helpers, who had to drag a stretcher through the building and up and down several flights of stairs just glared at him.
Don and Libby went to check on Peggy's progress in a utility closet, where she had set up a video feed. “All ready,” she said.
“Great,” Don replied. “Call us as soon as you see anything.”
“Where are you going?”
“Finnemore Dunn is a suspect. Libby and I are going to interrogate him. It occurred to me that since he's locked up, he won't have the opportunity to walk into our trap.” Don told Libby his theory on their way to the cells.
“My readers will hear about this,” Dunn shouted when he saw Libby and Don.
That presented Don a perfect opportunity to say something witty about hearing and reading, but as at all such times, his mind went blank. Perhaps for the first time ever, Don had found his klews folder without difficulty. He opened it now and gazed sternly at the reporter. “What size shoes do you wear, Mr. Dunn?”
“What?” The question confused him enough to stop shouting about his Constitutional rights.
Libby tugged on Don's sleeve and whispered into his ear.
“Oh yes. Finnemore Dunn, you are not under arrest. You are in this cell for your own safety only. However, for technical reasons (future planning, really) I will tell you your Miranda rights. Um. You have the right to, um. Oh God damn it. How does it go again?”
Dunn finished it for him.
“So do you want a lawyer?”
“I want you to let me go!”
“You're not in custody. You're being protected during an emergency. The way I heard it, you didn't want a lawyer. So tell me, Mr. Dunn, what size shoes do you wear? Those look like size ten. Am I right?”
“What of it?”
Libby asked the paper man where he was when the curator and artist were killed.
“I was working.”
“Anyone see you?”
“I was alone.”
“How convenient,” Don said. “And where were you when the latest victim died, not too long ago at this station? Why, you were here. Unsupervised. Interesting, isn't it? How did you know about the body so fast anyway?”
“I hear things. I'm great at that. It's part of my job.”
“Of course.”
“Listen, I'm sorry about ridiculing you in the paper. I think you're doing a fine job. But that doesn't sell papers, you know? Now, if you'll just let me go...”
“Mr. Dunn, why are you in such a hurry to leave?” Libby asked. “Are you not afraid of the murderer on the loose?”
“Or are you the murderer?” Don finished for his wife.
Dunn scoffed. “Yeah, and I'm trying to get out of here so I can destroy the evidence in the forensics office.”
“I knew it!” Don exclaimed. “You are now under arrest for the murders of Godfrey Leser, Gerald Oakley, and that girl whose name I don't recall.” He turned to Libby. “Do I have to Mirandize him again?”
She shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Oh my God. I was kidding. I was being sarcastic,” Dunn said.
“Sounded like a confession to me. That Peggy has evidence being analyzed was not released to the public. So you wouldn't know about that unless you were the murderer.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You yourself told me a couple of times when you tr
ied to scare me with that crazy looking lab guy and the men with the gurney. And those knuckleheads over there,” he pointed at who Don thought were Henston and Kirk, “have been discussing it the entire time.”
“Hmm.” Perhaps Dunn had a point. Don's radio crackled. “Go ahead, Peggy.”
“Movement in the forensics department,” she said.
“On our way,” Don and Libby raced up the stairs. “Who is it?”
“You won't believe it.”
“Tell us.”
“It's Tom,” Peggy said.
Tom waddled into Peggy's office, looking for the critical evidence. He paused to unwrap a candy bar. And scratch his butt. Now where was it? He found something that looked like a liquid sweetener. The jar had a little black skull and cross bones on a white background. “Pirate sugar,” Tom muttered, trying to twist the cap off. His fat fingers couldn't find a grip. He replaced the jar where he found it.
Ah. There it was. Tom squeezed between two lab tables. His utility belt hooked of them and dragged it with him. Maybe if he took his gun out.
“Drop it,” came a voice from behind. “Turn around. I said drop it.”
Don pointed a gun at him.
“What you doing Mettler?”
“I have the same question for you.”
“I'm looking for the critical evidence,” Tom replied, wondering what game Don was playing.
“Put down the gun.”
“Okay.” Tom did as he was told.
“I can't believe it was you all along.”
“Um. Okay.”
“But why did you do it?”
“I didn't mean to. It just happened.”
“You just happened to kill three people?”
“What?” Tom was confused. “I thought you were talking about the toilet on the third floor.”
“What?” Don furrowed his brow.
“Never mind.”
Don lowered his gun. “You're too dumb. What was I thinking?”
“Let's not be mean, Mettler.”
“So what the hell are you doing here?”
“Like I said, I'm getting the critical evidence.” He pulled on the latch and was sprayed with a cold blue liquid.
“But why?” Libby said. She recovered enough to make her way inside the lab.
“Swinton asked me.”
“Who?” Don asked.
“Scott Swinton?” Libby asked and Tom nodded. “He's on the force.”
Don made a face.
“Oh honey. Remember how last year you got really angry because that Councilman made us hire Swinton? Basically said he'd slash the police budget if we didn't.”
That rang a faint bell.
“Swinton asked you to come here and destroy evidence?”
“He said it was an order from you,” Tom said. “What is this stuff? Is it toxic? Am I gonna die?”
“I'm sure you'll be fine. Let me guess, he said he'd replace you at the door?”
“How'd you know?”
“Because he's the murderer,” Don said. “He's long gone. Chose the weakest link.”
“A little help here?” Tom had a hard time extricating himself from between the two tables.
Police vehicles fanned out across town, searching for Swinton. Peggy reported that he ditched his phone and so couldn't be tracked. Although Don didn't like him, he let the reporter go.
“Is there any other way to track Swinton?” Don asked.
“I don't think so,” Peggy said.
“How about his radio? It doesn't have a tracking device?” Libby asked.
“No, I'm afraid not. The police union said that was an invasion of privacy.”
“Oh yeah.”
Lucus called Don to inform him that the roadblocks were in place.
“Excellent. We can't find him, but he can't leave. He's bound to make a mistake. We'll get him.”
Although he didn't understand the look Don and Libby gave him, Tom knew he messed up. He left the station, got in his car, and drove to the old mill. He went there when he needed to be alone and he ran out of food money. He hid his car in the overgrowth, climbed to the second level of the building, and plopped down on the ledge. There he swung his legs in the breeze and played video games.
Finnemore Dunn flopped into his car and exhaled. He had enough material for several articles on police incompetence and the violation of his many rights. Dunn couldn't wait to get started. He got out his dicta-phone and rewound a few seconds, searching for a choice quote from Don. Gosh there were so many. The town council would want Don's head on a stick. Dunn forwarded to the end and pressed the record button. He cleared his throat. “I was falsely imprisoned,” he began. Something rustled behind him.
“Don't turn around,” cold metal pushed against his temple.
“Wh—”
“Shut up. Give me that,” the man behind him snatched the recording device and chucked it out the window. “Start the car and drive slowly out the lot. Then go to the abandoned mill.”
Dunn did as instructed, already longing to be back in his cell. On the other hand, if he survived this, there might be a book deal in it for him.
Arthur the janitor did his patrol of the parking lot, mop in hand. He dragged a bucket behind him. Water slopped over the edges and made a trail from the police station's front entrance. Arthur muttered about being rushed. Normally he had an hour to do this, but because the station had been on lock down, the time he allotted himself for this task had been reduced to a third. Still, he made good progress. The mop turned the patches of dust on the concrete into mud, which Arthur spread around as best as he could.
His mop collided with something solid. It first rolled out of the way and then got entangled in the strings. Arthur produced an exasperated sigh. He grimaced and knelt down, a hand on his back. When he saw that no one watched, he stopped pretending and fluidly knelt the rest of the way. He disentangled an electronic device and dropped it in his pocket. He hurried to finish his cleaning, already late in mopping the conference room.
Don, Libby, Peggy, and Duncan sat at the conference table. Their brainstorming session on how to track Swinton produced nothing in the way of results, but it did make them hungry. Libby ordered Chinese food while Don coordinated the search with his cell phone. The department was under strict radio silence, as Swinton had a radio.
Lucus searched the apartment where Swinton lived alone. He found nothing suspicious, nor any clues about where the murderer might hide. Swinton had transferred from a couple of towns over about eleven months prior. He didn't make any friends on the force and largely escaped everyone's notice.
“What's his motive?” Don said while attempting and failing to scoop noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. “The girl is obvious. Speaking of which, we should identify her and notify the family. He killed her to cover his tracks. But the other two, the curator and the artist. I don't know.”
“Maybe it was a murder for hire?” Peggy suggested.
“Hmmm,” Don stroked his chin.
Arthur came in and disrupted their conversation. He spread mud between their feet. Don sighed loudly and scowled. The prior Christmas he and Libby gave Arthur a book they found at a yard sale. How to Clean Everything by Alma Chestnut Moore. Clearly he hadn't read it. Although Don didn't either, he was sure that the book didn't advise spreading mud. A reputable publisher like Simon and Schuster wouldn't sell something like that.
“Libertad,” Arthur said in his very loud voice, which made the rest of them jump. “Can you help me with this? I wanted an mp3 player, but I don't know how to use it. He handed the device to Libby. Don immediately gave her a look. She knew that she'd have to wash her hands as soon as she gave it back to the janitor.
“It's not an mp3 player,” she said. “Maybe D—” her husband glared at her. “Maybe Peggy can take a look to be sure.” She gave the device to Peggy and went to the kitchen to wash her hands. Don smiled at her.
“It is a dicta-phone,” Peggy said. “Where'd you find it?”
“In the parking lot. Not a lot of time for mopping there today, I'm afraid.”
Peggy rewound a little bit and pressed play. They heard Dunn. Then they heard his captor.
“Swinton's got him!” Don said.
Peggy shushed him. “There's more.” But it was garbled. “I'm going to enhance this in the lab.”
Tom watched a car drive past the mill's main gate. It stopped below him. Finnemore Dunn got out with his arms raised.
“Please don't hurt me,” he whimpered.
Tom was about to say he had no intention of doing so when Swinton got out. Tom's colleague had his gun drawn and pointed at the reporter. The unorthodox tactic kept Tom from revealing himself. Swinton made the reporter enter the building, where they were lost from view. Tom recalled what Don said. Swinton was the murderer. He killed Tom's witness. That was mean. Tom didn't like mean people. He thought it might be a good idea to call Don, but orders prevented him. Strict radio silence, Don said. Cell phones did not use radio waves, but did Don know that? Tom decided not to risk it.
“Shut up and let me think,” Swinton answered one of Dunn's inquiries. “I did what she said. I did it. And now...”
“Who said?”
“Shut up!”
The creaking from Tom's movement drew Swinton's attention. “Who's up there?”
Tom went into stealth mode. He said, “probably just a bird or something.” Realizing that wasn't stealthy, he clapped his hands over his mouth and hoped his stomach wouldn't rumble.
Swinton, who must have thought it was the reporter speaking, seemed satisfied for the moment. “Shut up and let me think,” he said again. “What are you doing?”
“Just taking down a few notes for my book,” Dunn replied.
Tom heard Swinton grab the implements and toss them aside. “Sit there and be quiet. I haven't decided whether you're valuable as a hostage or dead, if at all.”
“Definitely as a hostage and not dead,” Dunn said shakily.
“For the cops maybe, but not for her. Although you could be frozen...”
“Okay...one thing though. Why are we cooped up in here? You could've been miles out of town by now.”
“They'd have roadblocks up right away. Don's a smart guy.”
Dunn snickered. “Does he even know that it's you?”
“I hoped he wouldn't, but the silence,” he tapped his radio, “says it all.”
