Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  “But it was the phone calls that did you in, Steve, my boy?”

  Steve looked puzzled, but said nothing.

  “We checked for fingerprints at all the phone booths we knew you used, but last night’s was the first one we found with recognizable prints—yours. We have Mr. Berkowitz to thank for the alert, and he was pleased to find out that there was no real emergency.”

  A good attorney will make a difference, Steve decided. But there’ll still be a lot of years behind the Walls. Next time, though, he would always wear gloves—polyethylene, not latex.

  THE SETTEE

  I wasn’t exactly happy with the police science course work I’d taken, and was even less happy with being a patrolman, but I got a big break before I’d been on the force more than six months. Detective school!

  It was a great experience. A lot different from the police science course. But I could see why so few patrolmen ever went to detective school. It was work, plenty of it. We covered just about everything you can imagine. New interrogation techniques, with rapid-fire questioning of suspects. New recording devices. DNA, computer processing of fingerprints, hair analysis. You name it. We got to study some of the most fantastic scientific advances imaginable. There are even techniques available where you can spot bloodstains under a half-dozen coats of paint. And they showed us some gruesome photos for estimating time of death by type and stage of insect development on the corpse.

  As far as I can see, criminals don’t stand much of a chance against all the modern science the police have at their disposal these days. We had lectures by top psychologists, pathologists, lab scientists—the works. I really knocked myself out at the school and managed to come out number one in a class of seventy-two, so I wasn’t surprised when the chief assigned me to Bill Bronson. He’s a detective sergeant who’s been on the force for at least twenty years.

  The reason I got the assignment with Bill was because a suspect had killed my predecessor. Even so, there’s no question but detecting is a lot safer than patrolling—at least on the average. The only problem I could see coming up was that Bill was notorious for his old-fashioned approach to investigating. Real old fashioned.

  It wasn’t so much he didn’t believe in or use modern scientific techniques—though he did kind of make fun of them—it was just that his idea of interrogating suspects or witnesses consisted mainly of just letting them talk, with an occasional “Uh” or “Uh huh” thrown in. One of the cops in the crew said Bill could “listen your mouth off,” which wasn’t far wrong. Here I wanted to start applying some of the knowledge I worked so hard to acquire but, instead, I was spending most of my time sitting in the background while Bill “interrogated” people. It was like being an assistant to a shrink.

  I think he was at least partly aware of my impatience with his approach, because he took me aside a few days after I was assigned to him and said, “People like to talk. They’re kinda like horses. Give them their heads, and they’ll run you off to places they’ve been to before. But if you try to guide them too much, they’ll just take you down the same path over and over again, or down paths they think you want them to go down.”

  In spite of his size—he’s six-foot and must weigh all of two-fifty—Bill has a real soft voice. I guess he just wasn’t equipped by nature to do any loud, rapid-fire questioning. Maybe that’s why he has the philosophy he has.

  One of the first cases we worked on together was what every detective knows is a no-brainer, a missing-person case. Bill told me he would have put it on a back burner if it had only been a report of a missing boyfriend. But when the boy—actually a man, since he was nineteen—was reported missing by his parents too, Bill figured we should look into it, especially since there wasn’t anything else hanging fire.

  The girlfriend, Betty Ann McGuire, was number one on the list. She was living in a small apartment only a few blocks from the police station. Betty Ann was a little thing, not much over five-foot, pretty and obviously really upset at Michael Stitch’s disappearance. Her apartment was, as my mom would say, neat as a pin. She invited us in and turned on the coffee maker without even asking.

  About all Bill said as he settled his bulk comfortably into an overstuffed chair, looking as though he was ready to spend the day there, was “Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” She did.

  “Mike was supposed to meet me here on Wednesday morning to drive me to work. That was four days ago, now. We were planning on getting married soon. He was still living at home, but when I moved into this apartment, that’s when we decided to get married. Dad sure didn’t like the idea. In fact, he was pretty mad. That’s why I moved out. That was last week, too. I didn’t get worried until Wednesday night, because I figured Mike might just have had car trouble, or something. But when he didn’t phone then, I got worried, real worried. That’s when I called the police. Weren’t you the one I talked to?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Betty broke off to pour us all some coffee, then sat down and picked up where she’d left off. “I know something terrible must have happened to him. He would never have just gone off without letting me know. We had all of our plans made. We were both counting the days.”

  The interrogation, if you can call it interrogation, went on for the better part of an hour. When we got back in the car, I couldn’t resist throwing in my two-cents worth. “The boyfriend just got cold feet and took off.”

  “Uh.”

  “Sounds to me like she was pushing him too hard.”

  “Uh.”

  “Her moving out of her Dad’s house panicked the boyfriend. Made him realize she was dead serious.”

  Bill must have been mulling over what I was saying, because he broke in, “Next stop’s going to be her Dad’s house.”

  Patrick McGuire’s house was in a quiet suburban neighborhood. We knocked but, getting no answer, Bill decided to visit the neighbors. The house just south of the McGuire home was the first one we tried, and the occupant—a older woman—led us right into the front room as soon as Bill identified himself and showed her his badge. Accepting her offer of coffee, he then briefly explained how he really wanted to talk to Mr. McGuire, but felt perhaps she might also help them locate a missing person.

  Once more settled into a comfortable chair with a cup of coffee in his hand, he asked if she had noticed anyone visiting next door, especially during the early part of the previous week.

  “I’ve known Pat for a lot of years, but he’s not what you might call a terribly sociable person, not since his wife died, that is. I used to know her real well. Nice person. We used to visit back and forth. She passed on. . .must have been two years ago now. No, he doesn’t have many visitors. He belongs to some kind of bowling team, I know. Now they were out last week to pick him up, I saw them come by. Must have been Monday. Yes, it was Monday, last week and this week. Monday’s his bowling league day, you know.

  “Uh.”

  She then veered off the subject of McGuire to comment about other neighbors, eliciting only an occasional “uh” from Bill.

  After a while, she refilled our cups and managed to return to McGuire. “I can’t remember anyone else coming by. Of course, I’m not one to sit by the window and watch the neighbors. The paperboy delivers the paper every morning. But he doesn’t go in. Now, I think Betty’s boyfriend may have been by. I think that was his car. Which kinda surprised me, because him and Pat had an awful row earlier this month, and Betty just packed her belongings and moved out. I spoke to Pat over the back fence some time around then. That’s when he told me Betty was planning on marrying Michael Stitch. He wasn’t too happy about it, believe me. But you know how the young ones are these days.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Once they’ve got an idea in their heads, especially a romantic idea, there’s no stopping them.”

  As we were going back to the car, Bill looked over at the McGuire house and said, “Since he isn’t around, let’s take a run out to the Stitches? We can always come back here later.
”

  Mr. and Mrs. Stitch were both at home. Mrs. Stitch did most of the talking, while preparing the inevitable coffee, along with some cookies.

  “That’s not at all like Mike, to go off without telling us. He likes to travel when he can get time off from work, but he always tells us where he’s going. And he’s never been gone this long before. It’s almost four whole days, now. He didn’t like the idea of being tied down, which is why I don’t believe that McGuire girl for one minute. I don’t know what’s come over young girls these days.”

  “Uh.”

  “When I was young, we didn’t go chasing after the boys. But these girls have no shame. She’s been after my Mike now for months. He’s too young to get married. I don’t know Pat McGuire to speak to, but I hear he’s dead set against their getting married. And I agree with him. Do you have any children?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, then, you know what it’s like. You can’t put an old head on young shoulders, I always say, so you have to do the thinking for them. Nineteen is just too young to go getting married. I told Mike that. Maybe he just came to his senses and decided to go some place to cool down, and to give her a chance to do the same.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  Bill broke in for the first time, to ask how they knew McGuire. And, for the first time, Mr. Stitch provided information. “I never met him, personally, but I know one of his bowling partners.”

  It was my job to copy down the name and address.

  Bill was for going directly to the partner’s home, but I begged for a pit stop. My bladder was about to burst, while Bill’s seem to have an unlimited capacity.

  One partner led to another. The two we interviewed had little to contribute beyond the fact McGuire had been angry at his daughter for contemplating marriage at her age, and even angrier because she had moved out. Fortunately, neither of them offered us coffee.

  By the time we had finished with those interviews, Bill decided to make one more attempt to meet Mr. McGuire. He was home, and there was definitely no coffee there for us.

  The home showed signs of Betty Ann’s previous presence as well as indications of her current absence. While the house still appeared neat, I couldn’t help but notice a thin layer of dust on the furniture. The front room, where Bill had managed to find a comfortable chair and where I settled for a straight-back one, was sparsely furnished. McGuire sat in the only other chair in the room.

  He didn’t wait for questions. “I can tell you right now Mike Stitch is a no-good. But convince Betty Ann? Oh no, never! He used to hang around here like a sick dog. I finally told him he wasn’t ever to come back here. That he wasn’t ever to set foot in this house again.

  “She got mad then, packed up her belongings and left. I wasn’t about to stop her. She’s of age. Not much I could do about it. Then I kinda figured it might do her good. Might even bring her back to her senses, especially when she started to have to pay for her own groceries. That Stitch kid wasn’t about to part with any of his money, I can tell you that.

  “Uh.”

  “And all this missing-person business is just a lot of smoke. He just found himself some other gal to run off with. You mark my words.”

  I knew I was breaking over into Bill’s territory, but I couldn’t take it anymore, so I asked, “Did Mike Stitch come here last week?”

  Bill looked over at me and came as close to glaring as he can ever manage.

  McGuire just about blew his cork over the question. “He damn well didn’t. Didn’t I tell you I told him never to set foot in this house? I haven’t seen him in weeks. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

  After that explosion, he just about stopped talking. Bill pushed himself up from his chair, and we left an angry McGuire who slammed the door behind us.

  Bill made no comment about the interview, just saying, as we got into the car, “One more partner to go. He has a furniture upholstery shop on third.”

  Claude Aguilar must have at first mistaken us for potential customers, his greeting was so friendly, but even after learning we were police officers he seemed pleased to have company, and invited us to make ourselves comfortable in one of the many overstuffed chairs and sofas sitting in his workplace. Bill took advantage of the offer, which included a cup of jet-black coffee from a pot which had obviously been brewing since early morning. I accepted a seat, but not the coffee.

  “Sure. I know Pat McGuire. We go bowling every Monday. Good bowler. Mind if I keep working? I’ve got a couple of rush jobs.” Aguilar was stapling fabric to the underside of a chair on one worktable, while a settee waited for upholstery removal on another table.

  Bill simply nodded, and Aguilar went on without interrupting his monologue.

  “Upholstering’s a good job, especially when times turn bad. That’s when people look at new-furniture prices and figure the old furniture might do if they can get the cat damage repaired. You know what these are?” Aguilar held up the tool he was using to staple the fabric.

  Bill and I both shook our heads.

  “It’s a nose ringer for hogs. You don’t see many of them, these days. It’s perfect for this business. Doesn’t hurt the furniture the way it does the pigs. At least they don’t squeal.” He grinned and put in a few more staples.

  “Of course, it’s really kind of silly for people to redo some of their old furniture, these days. It’s really not worth it. And I tell them so. It used to be furniture was made of oak or even curly maple. But, nowadays. Pfft! White pine is the best you can expect. I’ve even seen boxwood and cottonwood. And there’s some kind of Asian wood that must come in as ship ballast. Smells like skunk. I wouldn’t have it in the house.”

  I kept looking over at Bill, hoping he’d stem the flow and move on to what we’d come for, but he seemed to have settled in for the duration, the mug of black coffee in both hands.

  “Uh.”

  Aguilar was putting the finishing touches on the chair. “But I’m not complaining. And if someone insists on my repairing a kitchen chair made of balsa wood, I’ll accommodate him. No guarantees, though.” He laughed. “People are funny, you know.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “They never think to check to see if anything slipped in behind the seat cushions or down in the chair.” He waved his hand at a Mason jar on the counter half full coins. “I’ll bet you I average over a dollar a chair in change. That’s my mad money. Every year I go to Atlantic City and spend only what’s in the jar. So far I’ve always lost. But one of these years, I’ll come out way ahead.”

  “Uh.”

  God, how I was wishing we could move back to Pat McGuire where we might find out something relevant to the case, when suddenly Aguilar seemed to read my thoughts.

  “Speaking of Pat McGuire,” (We hadn’t said a word about him after the first few moments of our visit) “this settee belongs to him.” He walked over to the second work table as he spoke, indicating the floral print furniture sitting on it.

  “I told him it wasn’t worth re-upholstering, but he said he spilled hot chocolate on it and couldn’t get the stain out. Actually, he did a pretty good job of cleaning, so far as I can see. I wouldn’t have bothered to do anything with it, especially since it’s really a cheap piece of furniture. I guess it must have some sentimental value for him. You just never know about people, do you?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Let’s see how much change fell out of Pat’s pockets,” Aguilar said as he pulled the two cushions off and passed his hands along the inside edge of the settee. “A quarter, so far. Looks like I’m not going to get rich off of Pat. Whoops! Hey, maybe I was wrong.” Aguilar held up a billfold.

  I didn’t know Bill could move so fast. He was up and had the wallet in hand before I reacted at all.

  He opened it and nodded toward me. “It’s Mike Stitch’s wallet. And, lookee here. A gas receipt for last Wednesday. I guess we’d better have the lab check out those ‘chocolate’ stains. And, in the meantime, I think I’d better
have a long talk with Pat McGuire.”

  THE SHOPPING MALL KILLER

  Today was going to be a good one, he assured himself. The pressure had built up since the last time, three weeks ago. Tall, clean-shaven, a rather boyish face and an athletic, muscular build obscured by a loose fitting shirt and pants; these made for an unthreatening appearance. The sling for his left arm gave him the exact aura of helplessness which almost always paid off. And the sling was a handy place to hide the straightedge razor. He had six of the burnished lengths of steel, always treated gently, carefully honed and oiled. His favorite with the carved ivory eagle head for a handle was the one he’d decided to use today. It had splendid memories attached to it, and he’d spent almost an hour stropping it before coming out to the mall. Just a touch with it would break the flesh.

  It was difficult for him to contain himself as he slipped back against the wall, in a spot that darkened quickly after the sun went down… and waited. Not only was it going to be a good one, it was going to be an early one. She came wending her way through the parked cars almost directly toward him. Small—he preferred them small—but long slender legs. She didn’t look right or left. Her mind was somewhere else. Dumb, like all the others. Now if it was only that Toyota Highlander she was heading for. He preferred roomy cars.

  No. Damn! She stopped next to an old Beetle, of all things. But, then, his best one had been in a broken-down Fiat. You never know. He moved quickly, but he soon saw there was no need to hurry. She wasn’t in any rush to start the car; instead she’d left her door partly open so the roof light would stay on. She was checking out a piece of paper. Probably her shopping list. Probably trying to figure out what she’d forgotten. Now, the crucial step.

  Broad smile on his face, walking over to the VW, bending over on the passenger side so she could see his encumbered arm, he gestured ambiguously to the neighboring car with his right hand. Somehow, that seemed to almost always work. Even with manual windows, the woman would lean over, roll it down and ask what was wrong. His frequently rehearsed move was now almost automatic—arm through the window, unlock the door, slip in, razor out, and maybe even a preliminary nick to show he was serious. This one was no different.