"He was found here,” Mitch said, handing Scott the stack of notes. “Sitting dead in his chair with his shirt and shoes off, looking peaceful, considering he'd been shot in the throat with a pellet."
"A pellet?"
"Like you and I used to shoot in that big air rifle of Jake Mayhew's. Except this pellet had grooves filed into it, and was coated with poison."
Scott grunted and began studying the documents. Especially the photos of the body.
"Name's Howard Pullman,” Mitch said. “Sheet metal worker, down by the river. Haven't found his wife yet, but we've talked to several friends.” Mitch paused and struck a match with his fingernail. When his pipe was going to his satisfaction, he said, “Sad story. He was about to be laid off, and had told one of his pals his biggest worry was the fact his daughter's so sick. Juvenile arthritis, I think. Anyway, if he's let go, his family's medical coverage goes too. Also, he has a company life insurance policy, which he'd lose."
Scott was watching him now, the papers forgotten. “You saying what I think you're saying? He ... set this up somehow?"
"Just hear me out.” Mitch walked to the broken window and looked down at the street. “Out there on the sidewalk below the window, we found a slingshot. A kid's cheap slingshot—plastic handle, long elastic sling. No prints. Inside the little pouch on the sling, though, were traces of the same thing we found on the pellet buried in his throat—which we know now, of course, is poison."
"The murder weapon,” Scott murmured.
His brother took out his pipe and scowled at it. “What bothers me is, the only reasonable place that pellet could've come from, assuming it was fired using the slingshot, is that vacant lot there, across the street. There's a good angle to the window and lots of bushes and trees for cover. But there are two problems. First, I'm not sure that slingshot was powerful enough to reach that far. Second, if it was shot from there, why'd the killer then cross a busy street, toward the building, and drop the weapon in plain sight on the sidewalk?"
Since no answer was expected here, Scott didn't try to provide one. He just listened.
"And another thing,” Mitch said. “Pullman was found right there, in his armchair. Shirt and shoes off, like I told you, and his right sock. His shoes—lace-up work boots—had been neatly placed side by side, with the one sock tucked inside his right shoe."
He paused.
"And?” Scott prompted.
"And the shoes had bits of glass embedded in the soles."
For a moment neither of them spoke.
"I found it myself,” Mitch said. “Haven't mentioned it to anybody else yet. I wanted your opinion."
Scott ran a hand through his hair. “Your lab team missed it?"
"What can I say? It's hard to get good help."
Scott sighed. “Well ... we know he had to get from the window to the chair. Only a few steps, but maybe he picked up the bits of glass in his shoes then, after being shot, then sat down in a daze and took his shoes off. Maybe that's why only one sock was still on. The poison could've gotten him before he finished."
"I suppose. But that way there wouldn't have been any cuts on the bottom of his bare foot—and there were. Besides, I can't see the guy calmly sitting down and unlacing his shoes and taking them off and lining ‘em up neat as you please if he's just been plugged in the neck. I don't even think he'd have had time to. If the poison was supposed to take less than fifteen seconds—"
"I see your point,” Scott said. “The shoes must've been off already, before he was shot. But if they were, how'd they get glass in the soles, right?"
"Right."
Scott Varner backed up and leaned against the wall by the window, thinking. At last he blinked and looked at his brother. “When did Pullman arrive here at the apartment?"
Mitch tipped his head toward the papers in Scott's hand. “Around twelve fifteen, maybe as early as twelve ten. Lady who lives down the hall saw him come upstairs. Spoke to him, she said, but he didn't respond. He just marched down the hall and through his door and locked it behind him. He was found an hour or so later, at one twenty."
"How?” Scott asked. “Someone hear the window break?"
Mitch smiled. “That'd clear up a few things, wouldn't it? No, nobody heard anything. The lady who'd seen him come in got to worrying about him, coming home unexpectedly and all—he never comes home at lunch, she said—and decided to check on him. She knocked on his door, and when he didn't answer she went back to her apartment, called him on the phone. He didn't answer that either. That's when she called the super and got him to unlock Pullman's door.” He paused, then added, “She verified, by the way, that nobody entered or left his place between twelve ten and one twenty."
Again the Varner brothers fell silent. Mitch studied the smoke from his pipe and Scott studied the notes in the report.
Finally Scott turned to face the window. He bent over, squinted at the broken pane. A piece of glass the size of his hand had fallen inward and onto the floor, but one edge of a hole and its spiderweb cracks were clearly visible.
"So,” he said, half to himself, “the window might've already been broken when he walked in."
"That's what I figured, yeah. But how?"
For a long while Scott stood there, staring at the window and through it to the wooded lot across the street, two floors below. Still watching the hole, he backed up a step, moved forward again, crouched down, stood on tiptoe. Then he turned slowly to look across the living room at the wall opposite the window.
"Get me something to stand on,” he said, his eyes fixed on the wall. He was gazing at a point just below the ceiling.
With a puzzled look, Mitch went into one of the other rooms to fetch a chair.
Scott continued to stare at the wall, where several cheaply framed pictures were hung in an erratic pattern. After a moment he stepped up on the chair, turned, and looked once again over his shoulder at the window. Then he reached up and lifted the top picture off its hook in the wall.
Underneath was what looked like a bullet hole.
He handed the picture to Mitch, took out a pocketknife, and probed the hole in the Sheetrock. Seconds later he held a small lead pellet in his hand. “No poison on this one, I bet."
Mitch looked at the pellet for a long time. “So when was this done, you think?"
Scott shrugged. “Sometime before twelve ten, I imagine. That way, the broken glass was already on the floor when Pullman came in. Thus the glass fragments in his shoe soles when he crossed the room.” He stepped down from the chair. “I think, now, that Howard Pullman must've fired this pellet himself, though probably from a big, heavy pellet gun like we used to use, instead of the slingshot. That way it'd be sure to reach, and would be more accurate."
Mitch nodded. Unlike BB guns, old-style pellet rifles were powerful. Scott figured his brother was remembering the two of them drilling holes in soup cans from twenty yards away.
"But something doesn't figure,” Mitch said. “You can't just shoot a window out in broad daylight."
"Maybe you can,” Scott said. “This is April the first."
"So?"
"I noticed a fire station a few doors down."
Mitch spread his hands. “So...?"
"So they probably blow a siren at noon on the first of every month. I know ours does at home. And a whistle like that would be loud enough to drown out the pop of a pellet gun, not to mention the sound of a breaking windowpane.” Scott scratched his chin. “You want my guess, Mr. Pullman knew that too, and chose that moment to fire his shot. Twelve o'clock on the nose."
"But—"
"He had to show that the window was broken from the outside, Mitchell. So he made the shot, ditched the gun, then circled way around somewhere and walked into the building. Then he climbed the stairs, came inside, locked the door, and—his one mistake—walked over the broken glass with his shoes on."
Mitch was watching his brother closely now, absorbed. “And then?"
"Then he got a picture, hu
ng it on the wall to cover the pellet hole, took off his shirt, sat down in the chair, removed his shoes, arranged them just so, and took off his right sock."
Scott's mind was humming now, his eyes glazed. He was in his element.
"Okay,” Mitch said. “Enlighten me. Why his right sock?"
Scott turned and focused on him. “Because he needed a bare foot for his slingshot."
"What!?"
"He took the poisoned pellet from his pocket, along with the slingshot. You said the sling was a long one, remember. He fitted the pellet into the pouch of the sling, wedged the pouch between the toes of his right foot—” Scott extended a leg and acted it out. “—and then, with his hands, he held the handle up here, a few inches from his throat, stretching the elastic."
"I get the picture,” Mitch said.
"That's why the pellet had to be poisoned. He wasn't sure how hard it would hit him, or how far it'd go in. And that's why his shirt was off. In case he missed the soft skin of his throat a little."
Mitch pondered that for a moment. “But ... after he shot himself—"
"He got up, probably used his shirt to wipe the slingshot clean of prints, then dropped it out through the hole in the window. He had to get rid of it. He was smart enough to know there might be signs of the poison on the pouch of the sling. Anyhow, that's when he got the glass in his bare foot, and the blood on the floor. Then he came back and collapsed in his chair. An hour later he's discovered by the landlord and the neighbor, they call you, and you call me.” Scott spread his hands like a magician. “And I solve your case,” he added with a grin.
Mitch drew his brows together, thinking.
"The question now,” Scott said at last, “is what are we going to do about it?"
Mitch blinked. “Do about it?"
Scott gave his brother a long, measuring look. “Mitchell,” he said, “it's not like you to find new evidence, of any kind, and keep it to yourself. We both know that.” Without breaking eye contact, Scott held up the report and tapped the top page with his finger. “I think, from the point when you found the glass in his shoe soles, you had doubts it was a murder. A locked room mystery, you told me on the phone. You meant it, didn't you? And you hadn't told anyone else your suspicions because of one thing: If it wasn't murder, it must have been suicide. And if it was suicide then this poor sucker's family wouldn't get a penny of his life insurance, employee or not. Right?"
Mitch Varner frowned, fiddled with his pipe, heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I had my doubts, I just couldn't figure it all out. And I kept thinking about ... well, I kept thinking about what our ma could've done with some extra money if the old man had had sense enough to be insured when he flipped his truck that night.” He glanced at Scott and shrugged. “You know?"
Scott didn't answer. Instead he said, “Let me ask you this. What if one of your men happens to find a pellet gun out there in the woods?"
Mitch shook his head. “They won't. They're done with that now. Even if it did turn up, if Howard Pullman was as careful as I'm beginning to think he was, he'd have wiped it clean before he left it anywhere."
Scott gave that some thought. It grew very quiet in the room. It also grew cold; the wind was whistling in through the hole in the window.
"So what do you think?” Mitch asked.
Scott looked his brother in the eye, then handed him Walter Biggins's folder. “I think your man's written a thorough report. I can't come up with a single thing to add."
Mitch took the folder, waiting. He seemed to know something was coming.
"On second thought,” Scott said, “I do need some surfacing compound. They should have some at the paint store on the corner."
"What?"
Smiling, Scott glanced at the little hole in the wall, just below the ceiling. “I'm the handy brother, remember? I can cover that over in two minutes flat."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by John M. Floyd.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Pit and the Pendulum by John Gregory Betancourt
When the phone rang, I rolled over with a groan and reached for it. Who could possibly be calling me? I didn't have any friends left, and all my bills were paid up, thanks to last month's trip to Atlantic City's casinos.
"'Lo?” I mumbled into the receiver. My head pounded something awful.
"Pit?” asked a man's voice.
I blinked. Nobody had called me that in years. “Who is this?"
"Pit! Thank God I reached you—I need your help."
"Huh.” I managed to sit up in bed. The room swayed; I felt sick and dizzy. “What? Help? Who is this?"
"God, Pit, it's three o'clock! Aren't you awake?"
"What? Three o'clock?” With my free hand, I rubbed at crusty-feeling eyes. It didn't help. I felt old and tired and all fogged up inside ... thirty years old and ready to die. “Call me in the daytime!"
The voice on the phone chuckled. It sounded forced.
"Come on, Pit,” the man said urgently. “It's three o'clock in the afternoon. Wake up. You're the sharpest guy I know. I need your help!"
Slowly I tried to think it through. Only frat brothers had ever called me Pit. Short for Pit Bull—because I never let go. So that meant we had gone to college together, a lifetime or so ago. At most in any given year, our fraternity had thirty-two members. Times four ... a lively selection of suspects.
"Pit? You still there?"
I frowned. A decade had deepened his voice, but it sounded familiar. Like a gear clicking into place, my brain started working and the name came to me: David Hunt. Tall, blond, and good-looking in a Calvin Klein-model sort of way, mostly skilled in partying and racquetball, but good enough academically to get his MBA without any special assistance from me. That was the only reason they let me into old Alpha Kappa Alpha, after all, to help the jocks and old-money frat boys keep up their GPAs. Sometimes I had resented it, being there to be used, but mostly I didn't care, since the perks were great. I got into all the parties. I had my share of dates and fun and beer, and I still graduated at the top of our class. So what if I did a lot of tutoring and ghostwriting?
David had been ... fifty-third? Yes, that was right. Fifty-third in our graduating class. More than respectable for a party boy from Alpha Kappa Alpha.
"What is it, Davy?” I said. The haze was lifting now. “And I go by Peter these days."
"Peter. Right. Come see me—I need your help. I'll make it worth your while."
I yawned again. “Where are you?"
"The Mackin Chase Hotel. I'll be in the lobby. Twenty minutes okay?"
"Make it an hour."
"If I have to. But hurry.” A frantic note crept into his voice. “My future depends on it.” He hung up.
Since he sounded desperate, I debated skipping a shower. But one look in the mirror and a sniff at my armpits changed my mind: I could live with bloodshot eyes and mussed-up hair, but popular society frowned on people who smelled like I did right now.
Heaving my legs over the side of the bed, I found a bottle of aspirin on the night table and dry-swallowed four tablets. My right foot bumped against a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on the floor, and briefly I debated a wake-up shot. No, not now; I had an appointment to keep. Instead, I screwed the cap back on.
I spent the next fifteen minutes showering, shaving, and cleaning myself up for polite society. A gulp of half flat Pepsi and a cold slice of pizza from the refrigerator made a very late breakfast. Then I found a shirt that wasn't too rumpled and put it on with jeans and comfortable old loafers. Finished, I grabbed a cane from the umbrella stand by the door, left my little one-bedroom Northwood apartment, and limped out to the Frankford El station.
A train came almost immediately, luckily. It was mostly empty, so I flopped down in the corner—not the handicapped seat by the door, which I hate—and from there I proceeded to study the gum, scuff marks, and unidentifiable stains on the floor, trying not to look out the window at passing brick factories a
nd endless lines of row houses. Details tended to overwhelm me these days; that was partly what led to my nervous breakdown and retirement from a twenty-hours-a-day job at a Wall Street investment firm four years before. Now I kept to myself, tried not to leave my apartment when I didn't have to, and drank to blunt the pain and keep the edge off my always-racing mind.
Already it was starting. Everything I knew about David Chatham Hunt came bubbling up through my subconscious, whether relevant or not. The two classes we'd both taken together (Comp 104 and Introduction to Analytical Writing). His family crest, which he'd once shown me (a griffin on a shield, surrounded by Masonic-looking symbols). I could even name all seventeen girls he'd dated (and the two he'd bedded) while living at the frat house.
What could David Hunt possibly want with me? He came from a rich old family; his life should have been golden. Mellow, easy-going, never-a-worry-in-the-world Davy Hunt's greatest decision these days should have been which swimsuit model to date or which of his many Saabs and Porsches to drive.
The train tracks went underground, and the car got noisy and claustrophobic and dark. A dozen people joined me in the car. Almost there, almost there. I tried not to look at anyone else. I didn't want to figure out life stories from their clothes, tattoos, body piercings, and jewelry.
* * * *
I knew the Mackin Chase Hotel quite well, of course; it's a Philadelphia landmark, a towering glass-and-steel building near the intersection of Twentieth and Vine, five minutes’ walk from the train station. Elevators ran up the outside of the building, and the roof had a helicopter pad. Several times I had wondered what the view would be like from up there. Several times I'd wondered what it would be like to jump.
I was ten minutes early for our appointment, but I strolled into the hotel lobby anyway. There, a modernistic fountain made of bent pieces of copper-colored sheet metal splashed and burbled amidst carefully groomed ferns and bamboo. Pale yellow carp swam lazily through a series of interlocking shallow pools. Around me, orchestral music played an incongruously up-tempo version of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” How appropriate.
AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005 Page 15
