Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Z nodded.

  Scherer was right.

  "But, as I've said, that entirely forgettable incident is not the reason I summoned you this late morning."

  "No?"

  "No."

  The conversation was about to turn serious. Though how Z knew that, he couldn't tell. Something in the feral slit of Scherer's mouth, the rigid set of shoulders, the squinch of his narrow, rodent eyes.

  "Before we begin, I think it only fitting that I give you the chance to come clean."

  "Clean?"

  "Confession is good for the soul, as the old saying goes." Putting his elbows on his fancy desk, the captain tented his girlish fingers.

  Z shrugged.

  "No?"

  Z shrugged again. The game -- whatever it was -- had begun.

  "Be advised that I am aware of your -- extralegal -- activities," Scherer started, sitting back, still underplaying his attack. "Breaking and entering, for one."

  The captain was guessing. A good guess, but just a guess.

  "Attempting to corrupt police officers."

  He meant being a friend of Ted Newbold.

  "It's more than a little suspicious that one of our ... how shall I put it ... less energetic detectives manages to discover clues that others have failed to find." He meant Z passing tips to Ted from time to time, tips exchanged for "corrupting" favors.

  "In countries where the police are allowed, shall we say, more forceful procedures, men like you would soon be off the streets." Scherer was beginning to warm himself up.

  "So you better not get smart with me, mister. You better answer my questions and be quick about it!" Launching himself forward, red-faced, the captain had gone from rat to adder.

  "OK." It paid to seem cooperative on another person's turf.

  "I'm ... sure." Scherer wasn't having any of Z's helpful stance. "So, let me just ask, where you were last night?"

  The Q and A had begun.

  That's what the cops called it. Q and A: questions and answers. The trick was to have two or three detectives ask the same or similar questions over and over in the hopes of snarling up the suspect. Trap him into reversing himself. According to the 87th precinct novels Z had read, a tactic that worked pretty well. The only difference here was that Scherer was doing the questioning by himself, Scherer always the one-man band.

  "Well?"

  "Home."

  "You say you were home last night?"

  "Yes."

  "What time?"

  "From nine until late morning."

  "It's late morning now."

  "I just got here."

  "Home from nine o'clock until Detective Bayliss picked you up? Is that your story?"

  "Yes."

  "Anyone who can collaborate your whereabouts?"

  "Home alone."

  "What were you doing?"

  "Sleeping."

  "No alibi," Scherer said, seeming to be taking mental notes.

  "So?"

  "I'll ask the questions."

  Z shrugged.

  "You went to Northtown High?"

  "Sure."

  "Were supposed to have been a big football hero while there?"

  Z shrugged.

  "Had a lot of friends?"

  "I guess." Though fewer than most people seemed to think. People thought football players, cheerleaders, musicians, and kids in the drama group had lots of friends. But that wasn't the case. A lot of people said "Hi" to "popular" kids; but you couldn't count any of them as friends. Of course Z had what you could call "specialty" friends, guys he played football with. As a sophomore, he'd tried to run track and had some "track" friends. But as for "all-around" friends, he had only two. John Dosso and Ted Newbold.

  "Had some, shall we say, low-class friends, even in high school, I'm told."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "You saying you didn't know John Dosso, allegedly in the mob?" Scherer came down hard on "allegedly."

  "No."

  "No, what?

  "No. I'm not saying that.

  "Dosso's dirty."

  "Not in high school."

  "Mr. All-American Boy."

  Z shrugged.

  "You know somebody named Lee Dotson?"

  "Who?"

  "Lee Dotson."

  Z might have heard the name, but couldn't place it. "No."

  "In high school?"

  "Don't think so."

  "Which is it? 'No', or 'Don't think so?'"

  "May have heard the name. A long time ago."

  "In high school."

  "Maybe."

  "But not a close friend, is that what you're saying?"

  "Don't remember him."

  "Didn't associate with him in high school?"

  "No."

  "Or after high school?"

  "No."

  "Go out for a drink with him last night?"

  "No."

  "Because you were alone at home." Said as cynically as the captain's, Shirley Temple voice would allow. "Except no one can collaborate your story about that."

  "I was home."

  "You wouldn't happen to know where Lee Dotson lives, would you?"

  Lee Dotson. Something about the name. Z did seem to have a memory about a Lee Dotson in high school. A little guy. Skinny. But they weren't friends. They might have passed in the hall, going to class. But didn't play football together. Z was certain the Dotson kid -- if Z had him right -- didn't play sports.

  "Know where he lives?" Scherer repeated.

  "No." Something about the name. And high school. Maybe, something since high school. ...... But Z couldn't come up with a connection.

  Until he'd gotten hung up on the name Dotson, Z had been having as good a time as anyone being questioned by a cop; a good time because Scherer plainly had nothing on Z, meaning that Z could give truthful answers -- always the easiest to remember -- and spit in Scherer's eye while doing so. But with the name Dotson floating free in his mind, Z began to wonder if Scherer did have something that could be troublesome. If Z could only remember ....

  Though Scherer was glaring at him, there seemed to be no more questions.

  "That it?"

  "Just remember that I'm watching you," the captain shrilled. "There may be some who think you're Mr. Clean, but I know better." Scherer gestured with his thumb. "Hit the road!"

  Scrambling up, Z was glad to do just that!

  Out the door, Z backtracked through the governmental secretaries, then past the fine-paying line to get out the back door. Only to stop at the pay phone just beyond the building: used mostly to summon bail bondsmen.

  Z dropped in his quarter and pushed the buttons.

  "Gladstone Public Safety."

  "Ted Newbold."

  "And your business ...?"

  "Just get him, honey." Z was tired of being nice to annoying people.

  "WELL!" But she did as she was told.

  "Detective Ted Newbold."

  "Teddy. Z."

  "I'm pretty busy today, Z." Passng Ted's office for the second time that morning, Z knew how busy.

  "Just a question. The name Lee Dotson mean anything?"

  "Dotson. Dotson." Ted's mind was so rusty, it squeaked when turning over. "Oh, yeah."

  "So?"

  "Punk. Got himself killed."

  "When?"

  "Last night."

  Z didn't like the sound of that.

  "He from our class in high school?"

  "Yeah. I think."

  "Killed?"

  "Yeah. Somebody broke into his place. And when I say 'broke in' I mean broke in with a sledge. Then broke his neck."

  "You said, punk?"

  "Con man. Gambler. Strictly small time."

  "Got a line on who snuffed him?"

  "It's Tabor's case." Said with disgust. Ted didn't like the new hire -- probably meaning that Tabor was more successful sucking up to Scherer than Ted.

  "But ...?" The police department was so small, and murder s
o unusual in Gladstone, that Ted should have heard something.

  "Nothing yet. No prints that help. No relatives. Lived alone in a crummy little house on North Georgia. That's all there is."

  "Killed. For sure?"

  "The way I hear it, the punk's neck was twisted so's he don't need no more rear view mirrors."

  "Tipped off about the body?"

  "No. Newsboy. Collecting. Saw the broke door."

  "Yeah."

  "Why the interest?"

  "Scherer pulled me in to ask me about it."

  "Good God, Z! You involved?"

  "No."

  "Better not be. Scherer don't like you as it is."

  "Another thing he doesn't like is detectives who sleep at their desk."

  "What??" Detective that he was, Ted would eventually figure out how Z knew that Ted had been dozing off. It might take some time, but ....

  "See 'ya."

  The phone, having nothing better to do, burped down Z's quarter as he hung up.

  A second quarter had a cab coming. Z deliberately brought and dropped. No chance of a cop ride home.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 14

  This time, it was at night, Z swimming toward the surface from the depths of fitful sleep, trying to escape from men in peasants' clothing. Men with pitchforks. Men with torches. Z running for his life through an enchanted forest, the ooze of the primeval floor sucking at his feet, slowing him down. He was panting. Exhausted. Could hear the angry shouts of the human pack, gaining on him, see the orange of torchlights reflected from black trees, high above.

  Night.

  Evil.

  He had done something evil but couldn't remember what. It was only when he gathered himself to leap across a forest rill that he realized what he was; saw his reflection in an eddy of the slowly flowing stream; saw hair covering his face; saw his long furry ears and pointed, black-leather nose.

  A werewolf.

  He was a werewolf! Chased by men determined to put a wooden stake through his animal heart!

  Because he had killed ....

  Fighting clear of the dream's quicksand, his mind popping to the surface, Z was panting, his heart pounding as if he'd run a marathon.

  Only a dream ... a dream ... already fading ....

  Stupid.

  Peasants with pitchforks chased Frankenstein's monster; you drove a stake through a vampire's heart; werewolves took silver bullets.

  Dreams. So real at the time. So dumb, when remembered.

  The only remaining ... strangeness ... was that Z's paralyzing dream had awakened him before the night had run its course.

  Meaning his dreams were getting worse?

  Z lay there on the wadded sheet, trying to cool down, wishing the thumping air conditioners in the living room did a better job of pushing cold air down the hall into the bedroom.

  Except for the chugging old window boxes, it was a quiet night. No wind. No rain.

  No precipitation -- a TV word -- for ... Z couldn't think how many days. But that was August in Kansas City, temperature a hundred or more every day for two weeks, recurring pieces on TV about the threat of heatstroke.

  Z was getting ... run down ... not by Transylvania rustics, but because of escalating nightmares.

  Though he didn't know how, he knew he needed to chase off these terrifying dreams.

  Torches. Synonymous with candles?

  Z, as monster, responsible for someone's death? A subconscious reference to ....

  And yet he was certain his candle-gambit couldn't have killed Howard Kunkle.

  Worn out.

  Did criminals confess to crimes they didn't commit because, exhausted by questioning, they couldn't think straight? Did something as simple as fatigue explain why the police were frequently plagued by weak-minded people wanting to own up to someone else's crime? Anything to get some sleep!?

  Z wasn't that desperate; was nowhere near dragging his pain-racked body before Captain Scherer to plead guilty to the death of Howard Kunkle.

  Z had Dr. Calder as a last resort, Calder, Z's ace in the hole.

  Ace in the hole -- in stud poker, an expression for an unbeatable ace, face down in front of a player, ready to be turned over to win the pot. A gambling expression that got Z to thinking about the recently murdered man ... Dotson. (So far, nothing but a name from high school.)

  Con man, Ted said. Gambler.

  With sleep drifting over him once more, Z's evaporating mind wondered if Howard Kunkle -- likewise, a small-time "wagerer" -- would meet Dotson in gambler's heaven. If birds of a feather flocked together, wouldn't it be true that players ... at the table ... shuffled .............

  Z was awake!

  A sound. ... A noise that shouldn't be there. Something other than a squeal from the decaying air conditioners. Wasn't a squeak or rumble. A ....

  Tapping.

  As if someone was outside, rapping at Z's bedroom window.

  Quickly, Z was up and just as quickly, creeping to the sill.

  Standing carefully to the side, Z eased back the yellowed blind to peer past the wood frame, Z hidden in the room's full dark, starlight silvering a cloudless night. Saw .... nothing but shadowed bush-shapes and black construction-paper trees.

  Possibly a limb blowing rhythmically against the glass?

  No wind.

  No limb.

  Too late for neighborhood kids, playing a prank.

  Not a night bird, fluttering against the pane.

  Could Z have begun to dream again ........?

  With nothing else to see, Z shuffled back to bed, but lay there, staring at the blackness, muscles refusing to relax.

  Until he heard ...

  Another noise. Pitched higher than the fan roar of the window boxes, this time, from the dining room. ....... No. A sound at the front door. A scraping ....

  And Z was up again, this time sneaking through the hall. Turning into the front room, the blast of air conditioning chilled his naked body as he crossed to the door.

  Listening, he heard the noise again, cutting through the chug and rumble of the twin conditioners. Louder. Definitely outside.

  Z had been in the breaking-and-entering business long enough to know those sounds; someone was working on the lock.

  Either a dumb thing to do (the lock of the deadbolt variety and hard to pick,) or the act of a knowledgeable and, therefore, dangerous foe. (At the same time, someone unable to do the job quietly.)

  Jamie Stewart?

  Z didn't think so. Jamie's talents lay in other directions.

  There in the dark, Z ran through the short list of who might be trying to get in; came up with no one, unless, for some unfathomable reason, Captain Scherer had decided to do his own dirty work for a change.

  On the other hand, why Scherer would want to get into Z's place in the middle of the night, was anybody's guess.

  No matter. Whoever it was, Z didn't like having his house invaded! (When Z broke past a lock, there was a good reason for it. Generally, entering in the interest of a wronged client.) The criminal who was trying to get in now was guilty of trespass, plain and simple.

  Stepping back, the dark doing nothing to confuse Z's mental memory of the living room, Z backtracked to the cold fireplace. Squatting, slid the firebox to one side on the pivot he'd made, exposing the space below; reached down to pull his detective case out of the slanted compartment that held it against the floor joists.

  Opening the valise, Z delicately fingered the shadowed "tools" inside, the assortment of fireworks: fountain, sparklers, firecrackers, punk. Felt the closed-up straight razor. Nylon cord. Lock picks. Lighter fluid. Penlight. And, of course, his sap -- the only item effective in this situation.

  Slipping the blackjack out of the elastic band that held it, closing the case, returning the satchel to its hiding place, Z slid back the firebox.

  Sap in hand, he eased himself to the side of the front door where he positioned himself in front of the left conditioner, shivering in its icy blast
, waiting.

  Now that he was ready, he was impatient for the person out there to find the right combination of tumblers. More eager than irritated. Interested, rather than anxious. A curiosity tinged with ... respect. It took moxie to attempt a modern deadbolt. Even, Z ....

  Click.

  The sound of the lock being worked.

  Raising the sap, standing to the side so he'd be behind the door when it came open ....

  Gentle pressure now applied to the door, its hinges squeaking just a little as the door came in. There was a pause ...then, a dark shape entering.

  Someone ... squat. ... Expensive cologne. ........

  And a thunk! behind the ear. Z then dragging a surprisingly heavy body into the room so Z could get the outside door closed and locked.

  Secure again (as that kind of lock could make him,) Z was ready to switch on the light to see what "prize" he'd plucked from the cracker jack box.

  Rolling the body on its sleeping back, Z stepped to the wall switch.

  Snapped it on.

  Turned to see ....

  Johnny Dosso! Black suit. Blue silk tie.

  Confused, Z's only thought was that this was the first time in all these years that John Dosso had "visited" Z's house. .......

  A quick burst of questions clogged Z's mind, all resolving into the generalized query: what was Johnny doing, breaking into Z's apartment?

  Attempting to get inside as quietly as possible, was the obvious -- though far from satisfying -- answer.

  Crossing to shut down the rumbling window conditioners, returning to sit down bare-butted on the sofa, Z had a silence-inspired thought. John hadn't been trying to blind side him. Why? Because the tapping at Z's bedroom window had been John Dosso, trying to awaken Z. John had only come through the front door when he'd failed to rouse Z in the bedroom. Didn't want to pound on the door and wake the neighbors.

  Z felt better. He didn't have so many friends he could afford to have one sneaking up on him. Though straining his knee, managed to get John propped up on the divan.

  While waiting for John to revive, Z returned to the bedroom for a robe and slippers, coming back to open the front door and look out. No particular reason; just checking Johnny Dosso's trail.

  Looking toward the back, he didn't see John's stretch Lincoln in the alley.

  Stepping out, the night air clammy beneath his robe, he cold-footed it up the walk -- John's car not out front, either.