The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  “Too bad about him. He was a friendly guy.”

  “Very.”

  Wayne threads his hands and leans back in the chair. “Anything special you want me to do, boss?”

  I shake my head. “Do whatever it was you were doing,” I say, heading toward my office, then I catch myself. I turn back to Wayne, who flashes a quick smile.

  I shake my head and open the door to my office. At this hour, there isn’t a hell of a lot going on in Eastpoint, so I suspect Wayne will gravitate back to the drawer once my door is closed.

  I glance around my small but adequate office. At least it’s clean. Not like Gloria’s. I glance across the room, stopping at my office window. Nothing but darkness. During the day, the window allows me to survey downtown Main Street, a whopping three blocks long. I could spy on my citizens if I wanted to. Not that I need to spy on anyone, though on occasion, I might remove my spyglasses from the draw and see what’s happening in front of the Eastpoint Bar and Grill, a popular haunt with the old-timers. Quite honestly, nothing ever happens at the bar or in this town. Until now.

  I cross the room to my desk and pick up the crime-scene analysis report, then gaze out the window again. Local shopkeepers won’t be crawling out of bed for at least another hour. Then, in typical fashion, they’ll converge with smiles, waving to each other and setting the tone for another day of business and sociability.

  And apparently, this town is very sociable. Ask Hunter.

  Outside of my home, my office is where I seek tranquility and introspection. And lately, even before Hunter’s demise, I’ve been spending more time here.

  I tear open the official-looking report, stamped “Preliminary—Pending Final Pronouncement,” and begin to read. After perusing a few pages, I realize this report won’t contain the same language Gloria used during our meeting. It’s a courtesy copy that under most circumstances mirrors the final report, suggesting that Hunter died from an overdose of the tranquilizer Halcion, washed down with Jack Daniel’s. Not a bad call, considering there wasn’t much else found at the scene.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Hank, you okay in there?”

  Of course, I’m not okay, and I’m not looking for company, but I invite Wayne in out of courtesy.

  He stands at the door with a mug of coffee and says, “You look like you can use some.”

  I motion Wayne in and watch him negotiate the coffee, setting it in the center of my desk. He takes my invitation as a sign to chat, so he slides into an old brown leather chair opposite me.

  Though I feel vulnerable right now, Wayne is not the person I would confide in. Don’t get me wrong. I like Wayne and consider him a friend. But his mouth has been known to be used as a receptacle for gossip: collecting and dispensing. At five-seven, my deputy weighs in at about two-twenty. Fortunately, Wayne hasn’t had to run after anything faster than a wayward calf. His eyes are brown, matching his closely cropped hair. Wayne isn’t an unattractive fellow, just unkempt.

  I suspect my deputy’s ulterior motive for serving me coffee is the report, because his eyes haven’t left it since he arrived. I drop it on my desk, his eyes following. I provide him a few moments until he senses me staring at him. We exchange looks, then he asks, “Hunter ever mentioned he was…considering it?”

  Like placing an ad in Newsday? “I had no idea,” I tell him.

  “Me neither.” He pauses. “What makes a person do something like that?” he asks innocently.

  Wayne has been insulated from the real world too long to understand human weakness. I’m too tired to go into Psychology 101 with him, so I offer him a shrug.

  “What does the report say?”

  “Not much,” I tell him and wait for Wayne’s response.

  “Come on, Hank.” he says, his eyes begging. “There’s gotta be something.”

  I’m such a tease. I lean back in my chair and open the cover. “The house was undisturbed, devoid of anything of a suspicious nature.” I stop. “In other words, the place wasn’t tampered with,” I explain as though reading to a layperson.

  He nods.

  Then I paraphrase, discuss the booze and sleeping pills, then glimpse over at Wayne, whose elbows are resting on my desk like an attentive schoolboy. “As for fingerprints, a few were obtained and will be analyzed. It appears that Hunter penned his own suicide note. That is, he signed it. As for the body, there were no obvious bruises or lacerations. In the words of the investigators, there was no foul play.” My eyes remain on the last line and for one fleeting moment, I’m relieved. Death brought on by a mixture of alcohol and tranquilizers. Suicide.

  “Cut and dry,” he says.

  I close the report. “Looks that way.”

  “He was a nice guy,” Wayne says, his eyes softening.

  “Sad,” I force out.

  “He seemed to get along with everybody.”

  “Just about.” I swallow hard.

  Wayne works his frame out of the chair. “I guess I better get back to work.”

  I nod mechanically, then ask, “Whaddaya know about him? Hunter?”

  Wayne thinks a moment then shrugs, “Only that he wrote a syndicated sex column in the newspaper.”

  “A romance column,” I correct.

  “Right. But for a guy who wasn’t married, he sure knew a lot about married life. And sex, too,” he emphasizes.

  “You don’t have to be married to know about that stuff, Wayne. All you need is a partner,” I say, choking on my words.

  “I suppose. Wasn’t he a psychologist?”

  “Trained in the field, but he hadn’t practiced since moving out here.”

  “Guess that’s where he got his experience to write that stuff. From all those city folks with sex problems.” He chuckles with amusement.

  My stomach feels like a medicine ball smacked into it. “Unlike where you get your answers from.” I smile thinly.

  Wayne laughs. “Hey, I’d rather read Hunter’s columns. He’s good.”

  “Was,” I correct. “I didn’t realize you followed his column. You’re not married, and unless you found yourself someone recently, you haven’t been with a woman in years.”

  Wayne’s round face deflates. “It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he defends. “There just aren’t any available women in this town.”

  Hunter thought so, but I nod in sympathy. “Sorry. I guess I’m not myself right now.”

  “At least you have a good wife, Hank,” he tries. “I mean, you and Susan probably have one of the best marriages in Eastpoint. You probably don’t even have to read Hunter’s columns.”

  I want to scream. “Appreciate it, Wayne.”

  Then Wayne throws a curve ball. “Hey, maybe Hunter was gay.”

  Wayne must have seen my expression change.

  “Could be why he killed himself,” he says, seemingly satisfied with his theory.

  I shake my head. “How’d you arrive at that conclusion, Wayne?”

  He makes a sweeping motion for emphasis. “Think about it. Have you ever see him with a woman? Maybe his columns were just a front to hide his true feelings.”

  I wave dismissively. “Get real. I knew the guy, for chrissake.”

  Wayne smiles with a degree of satisfaction. “Is there something you wanna confess, boss?”

  I point to the door. “You got something to do?”

  “Just a theory,” he mumbles, heading out.

  When Wayne closes my door, I return to the report, thumbing back a few pages and stopping when it discusses the Jack Daniel’s found at the scene.

  I lean back in my chair, ease my tired legs on the desk and close my eyes. Years ago, when Susan and I were feeling amorous, she would remove a beer mug from the freezer, then slowly pour in a bottle of Samuel Adams, all the while watching my face. Her seductive expression told me I was in for more than beer.

  I rub my eyes. Had Susan done the same for Hunter? Poured his last drink? Did she offer him a seductive smile while thin
king about rat poison? And since Susan doesn’t drink bourbon, she wouldn’t have participated. That might explain why only one glass was found on the coffee table.

  I give my eyes a good rub. Right now, I can’t buy into that morbid scenario. Not so much that Susan could have been responsible, though that’s very troubling. What doesn’t make sense is that the report mentioned an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s found at the scene. I knew Hunter. He didn’t drink the stuff.

  With great effort I lift my head off the desk, where it must have landed during the wee hours of the morning, and glance across the room, my eyes fixing on an early American pastoral wall print. My thoughts remain too consumed on Hunter to appreciate the isolated log cabin and a barn standing at the foothills of the Grand Tetons. Or the gentle morning sun reflecting off the snowcapped mountains.

  I stay on the poster a few moments longer before shifting to the ME’s report on Hunter’s suicide, which is now old news.

  I brush the inside of my mouth with my tongue and realize that outside of a few Tums, I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.

  The outer office is stirring, so I suspect the gang has already polished off a pot of coffee. Good morning to you all.

  I stand and stretch my aching muscles, then step over to the window and peer out. The townspeople’s mood appears to reflect the weather: sunny. Lucky them. I’m debating whether to call home when my office door opens.

  “Morning, boss.”

  It’s Wayne.

  “You looked like you needed some sleep so I didn’t disturb you, although your snoring kept me awake,” he says with a chuckle.

  I rub my temples. “’Preciate it.”

  “I’m punching out,” Wayne tells me. “What about you? You off or on?”

  I check my watch. “Both.”

  He chuckles again. “Doing a double shift?”

  “If I can stay awake.”

  “Well, there’s nothing doing around here now that the case is closed.”

  The case isn’t closed, of course.

  “Why don’t you go home and get some real sleep?” Wayne insists. “Charlie will call if he needs you.”

  Wayne is playing big brother. He means well, but he should only know I’d rather be here. “Maybe I will,” I tell him.

  He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone in my thoughts again. I glance at the phone but decide I’m not ready for a confrontation. Right now, I’m only interested in checking out my dead drinking buddy’s house.

  Hunter’s front door is still adorned in yellow and black police ribbon. As I emerge from the car, my eyes shoot upward to the window leading to the room, my brain inviting unhealthy visions. As painful as this place has become, it seduces me like a carnal magnet, and I continue my masochistic journey inside.

  Hunter’s master bedroom is located on the first floor. It’s an average-size room with a window, white metal blinds rolled up to the top of the pane, allowing in the soft morning sun. Below the window sits a brass queen-size bed. But unlike his boudoir upstairs, this room doesn’t have a mirror plastered on its ceiling. It does have a dark, antique-looking dresser, which centers one side of the room, a small flat-panel TV resting on top. They face a wall-to-wall mahogany bookcase that is filled with more books than our local library.

  I snap on a pair of latex gloves and approach the bookcase with curiosity. Hunter was an eclectic reader, or at least a collector of books; mysteries are ensconced between classics, poetry, and biographies. His rich collection of literature and authors leaves me chagrined at my own lack of appreciation for the written word.

  I remove Bleak House from one of the shelves and thumb through the pages. Perhaps it’s the title that grabs my interest. Or my mood. I slip it back in its slot, then slide my fingers slowly across one of the shelves, passing the likes of Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Scott Fitzgerald. My attention is captured by a thin orange ribbon dangling from a book ensconced between Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and his Tropic of Capricorn. I remove the leather-bound book and sit at the edge of Hunter’s bed. The title, Hunter’s World, is engraved in gold lettering.

  I wiggle the bookmark and open to a page that was handwritten in ink, a diary perhaps. My guess is that it belonged to Hunter, given that the writer used the same wavy motion that penned the suicide note. I suspect the title and contents were the imagination of Hunter himself. He kept referring to himself as a satyr. Like one of those Greek mythical characters, part human, part horse or goat, with an insatiable sexual appetite. I shake my head as I continue reading, thumbing forward a few pages and then stopping at an entry apparently written not long before his murder.

  “You’re gonna die, you bastard!” Hunter wrote. “The voice resonated through the phone line, carrying a slight but distinct lilt in spite of its rancor. It was a foreign voice. Only it wasn’t foreign to me.”

  I ponder Hunter’s words, which were written in a quick, almost nervous scribble. This is obviously a threat. I think of my wife. Susan has a nasal intonation but is certainly not foreign sounding. I ease myself back on the bed. Hunter knew he was in trouble. And apparently knew his killer. Why hadn’t he told me about the threat?

  Someone he knew. A foreign voice.

  The front door opens, and I instinctively reach for my revolver.

  “Hank?”

  I slip it back into my holster. “In here,” I call out, wondering what my deputy is doing here.

  Wayne pops his head in, surveys the room. “I saw your car in the driveway.”

  “I thought I’d have a look around,” I tell him.

  Wayne has a puzzled expression on his face. “How come?”

  I hesitate. “There’s been a development.”

  Wayne removes his felt hat and scratches his head. “A development?”

  Wayne likes to repeat things. I bring him up to date on my meeting with Gloria Wollinsky.

  He shoots me a look. “Murder?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  I watch Wayne search the room, not that he will find anything. His eyes meet mine. “Who do you think?”

  I shrug. “That’s what we need to find out.”

  Wayne is quick to point out that Eastpoint has never had a murder before.

  “I know that, too, Wayne.”

  He nods. “You suspect anyone?”

  My wife and a half-dozen other women in town.

  “No,” I reply.

  His eyes search the room again like maybe he missed something the first time. “So whaddaya gonna do?”

  I shrug again. “We gotta investigate.”

  “Just us?” he wonders.

  “For now, yes.”

  “But the county, they oughta be involved.”

  That’s not a good idea, of course, and I remind Wayne that my past life as a county homicide detective should be sufficient. But to satisfy any concerns he might have, I assure my deputy that if something develops, I’ll be the first to contact the county for help.

  “Or doesn’t,” Wayne chimes.

  “If we don’t have any luck within a few days, I’ll bring them in.”

  Wayne seems satisfied with my plan and asks how he can help move this investigation forward.

  Right!

  “Run along, Wayne. You’re off duty,” I say, my tone probably a little too dismissive. “I’ll call you later.”

  Wayne nods dejectedly, then asks about the book in my hand.

  I raise it. “It’s just a book.”

  He turns to leave. “See you, Hank,” he mumbles.

  I’m about to return to the book when I say, “Say, Wayne, what brought you out this way, anyway?”

  He stops, turns back to me, and shrugs. “Like I said, I saw your car outside.”

  I nod. “Yeah, but you live on the other side of town.”

  Wayne searches the floor, tells me he had nothing better to do.

  Of course, I know why Wayne showed up: he was curious, and I tell him so.

  Wayne holds back a grin. “Maybe a little.�
�

  I wave him out the door, then thumb forward a few entries, hoping to find clues. Instead, I get a completely different scenario. It reads more like Hunter’s paintings. Evidently, my murdered drinking buddy kept a diary on everything he did or imagined with these women. Everything!

  Repelled, I close the journal and stare out the window. One thing is certain. Hunter’s killer’s identity lies somewhere between the pages of Hunter’s World.

  Five

  John Hunter was Eastpoint’s most famous celebrity, though some might use infamous to describe him, particularly our more conservative folks. “Never read his trash,” they would tell me, though you’d never know by the sold-out copies of Newsday from Dwight’s Candy Store. Which only goes to show you that curiosity has a strong hold on people, especially when it comes to sex.

  Most of Eastpoint’s residents, though, found John Hunter a novelty item and watched him with interest, especially the women, who would giggle as he passed them on the street. As much as Hunter wanted to blend in to the small-town landscape, he could never hide his big-city persona. As he strolled down Main Street with a spirited gait, straight shoulders, narrow hips, and wearing designer clothes, Hunter was anything but a local.

  Hunter and I would meet at Salty’s on Friday nights. Our conversations never centered on his advice columns. I never brought up the subject, since I didn’t have much of a sex life and wasn’t interested in sharing my misery with him. I did read his columns regularly and found them occasionally aggressive, at times bordering on anger. But generally, Hunter wrote with a less strident tone, often adding humor. I remember one column addressing a timid couple struggling with their mundane lovemaking. “Try new positions,” he would encourage. “In every room any time of the day. Just watch your back. And remember, if it’s doable, it’s normal.”

  Looking back, and in light of Earl’s comment, it’s evident that Hunter had not heeded his own advice. Only Earl thought Hunter’s troubles stemmed from a lack of companionship, the absence of a woman. Quite the opposite. Apparently, Hunter had as many local women as he wanted. What he suffered from was lack of intimacy. In fact, he was dispassionate about everything but lust.