It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller

by Sharn Hutton

  “Oh? How’d you do?” Greenway flicked an interested eyebrow.

  The casino had torn a strip off him. “Alright, broke even,” Spink said, sitting back in his chair with a sigh and folding his arms across his chest.

  The smart one scribbled on his pad and Spink let his hands fall to his lap.

  “When did you call it a day?”

  “I’m not sure, around midnight.” That was probably true enough.

  “And Saturday?”

  “Saturday I was back at the show. I signed a deal off with a new client and came back early. About three.”

  “And after?”

  “Pretty much like Friday. Look, what’s this all about?” Spink shifted in his chair again and tugged at his collar. The sweet air conditioning was cloying in his throat and making him nauseous. He grimaced at Detective Greenway, who just looked back blankly. “How did you spend your evening, sir?”

  Spink looked down to the floor and searched his memory for details he was prepared to share. “I came down for dinner in the buffet around six, had a drink at the bar and spent a couple of hours playing poker. I wasn’t having much luck so I turned in around ten.”

  “Can you tell me the nature of your relationship with Jeremy Adler?”

  Spink huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Adler? He works for my firm as well. He’s here, somewhere.”

  “Did you spend time with Mr Adler on Friday or Saturday?”

  “No,” Spink scoffed. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “So you didn’t see him at all?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think that’s rather strange? Business associates here together in a foreign country, but you haven’t seen him?” Greenway sat up straighter, squinting at Spink. The fat moustache on his lip hid any indication of a sneer.

  “I’ve seen him in passing,” Spink corrected himself, looking back and forth between the detectives. “I like to keep to myself, that’s all.” And I hate him, Spink thought, but declined to add. The smart one started writing again and Spink slid his eyes over to the notepad, trying to see the words.

  “So on Saturday night you left the casino at ten. Where did you go?”

  “Like I said, I went to bed.” Spink flicked his eyes up in recall. It hadn’t been his bed, not straight away. No need to tell these officers about his freebie with a prostitute though, was there? His mouth twitched a little at the corner.

  “Did you hear anything unusual when you were in your room? Any kind of disturbance?”

  “Slept like a baby. I’d had a couple of drinks, tends to put me out for the count. Didn’t even know about the business over the road until the morning.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Spink gave them a slow nod, eyebrows raised.

  “Mr Spink is nodding his head in a slow and sarcastic manner,” said Dinwiddy.

  “Now hang on…”

  “OK. Thanks, Mr Spink. That’s all we need,” Greenway cut in.

  Spink waved his hand in surprise. “That’s it? You haven’t even said what this is about.”

  Detective Greenway looked back for a beat in frowning silence. “No. Actually, there is one last thing. Dinwiddy, the picture.”

  Dinwiddy unzipped a pocket in his wallet to retrieve a black and white photo and slid it across the table to sit squarely in front of Spink. It was grainy and pixelated, the angle unnaturally high, but there was no mistaking the face of his tormentor. Spink felt the heat burn in his cheeks.

  “Do you recognise this man, Mr Spink?”

  Spink shuddered. He wouldn’t allow Adam Fox back into his life. “I’ve never seen him before,” he said.

  SIXTY-SIX

  GREENWAY’S TREMENDOUS BACKSIDE TOOK UP ONE THIRD OF DINWIDDY’S DESK and trespassed a good deal more into his personal space. He took a greedy bite from a napkin-wrapped pastry and showered crumbs into Dinwiddy’s lap, talking the whole time.

  “So this guy is the last known person to have contact with our victim. What have we got on him?” Dinwiddy rolled his chair back as far as it would go and surreptitiously swept the pastry from his thigh to the floor.

  “So far we have managed to isolate images from the in-house cameras of the two of them in the bar, on the gaming floor and finally in the lift. They appear to be harmonious. I believe this man’s name to be Adam Fox. He checked into the hotel the day after our victim and is travelling independently. He is staying in a suite on the 23rd floor. He is not registered at TEKCOM and so far I haven’t been able to establish any relationship with Adler. I’m still working on general background. Credit reports show Spink to be in dire straits, Adler to be running an average bordering low credit score, while our man Fox is very comfortable. Places of work and family outstanding.”

  Dinwiddy noted Greenway’s nods of approval and ploughed on with the other facts he’d learned, thankful that he hadn’t felt the need to open his mouth.

  “The monorail footage clearly shows Donald Spink assaulting Adler on the 16:35 southbound, despite his claims of not having seen him for days. Body language during his informal interview exhibited strong indicators of deception. The account he gave was of little note, save for the absence of detail and his obvious desire to keep something from us.”

  “Agreed,” said Greenway, through the pie.

  Dinwiddy pulled himself back into the chair as much as possible. “Also, I noticed nicotine staining on the fingernails to Spink’s right hand. The victim is not a smoker, but someone had been smoking in that room. Ash was present and I’d bet a dime to a dollar, it came from a cigar: I recognised that heavy fug in the air from my daddy.” Dinwiddy cleared his throat and smoothed the page of his notepad. Why had he said that? He hadn’t intended to share personal information with a man like Greenway.

  He ploughed on. “Analysis of time logs provided by the hotel against the electronic key system and CCTV have also made for most interesting reading.”

  “How’s that?” said Greenway, spraying out more crumbs for Dinwiddy to blink away. Why couldn’t that man keep his damn pie to himself?

  “Well, the penultimate unlocking of Adler’s door happened at 22:42,” said Dinwiddy, scratching at the back of his own hand—digging at the crawl under his skin. “In the same minute we have a snapshot of Spink timestamped in the lift. It’s possible that he had time to get from the lift to that door before the clock ticked on, but as there are no cameras on the residential floors, we can’t be sure. The two system clocks might also be slightly out of sync.

  “Whatever the case, Spink’s own bedroom door was not unlocked until 10:55. What was he doing in those thirteen minutes? Did he have to step over to his own room to fetch something? Did he leave the door ajar? All questions we need to answer.

  “Adler and Fox are timestamped in the lift at 10:58 and we must assume that the final unlocking of the victim’s door at eleven was carried out by them.”

  “We need to get this Fox character in for questioning,” said Greenway.

  “I concur, Greenway. Unfortunately I am currently unable to locate him and, to my knowledge, he has not returned to his hotel suite.”

  “I’ll put out an APB. Meanwhile let’s squeeze Spink under arrest. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with here. You go over to the Grand and pick him up.”

  That was fine by Dinwiddy, any chance to get out from under this shower of masticated food and spittle, he’d take. He was delighted Greenway had things to keep him busy. His desk didn’t have much on it in the way of paperwork, but he supposed that family-sized pack of Cheez Doodles wasn’t going to spray itself.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SO THIS WAS IT: ADLER’S LAST JOURNEY. He paced out the golden corridor that tapered off into the distance. Forty-two from the lift to the turn, another eighteen to the room. Dinwiddy flipped open his wallet and double checked his notes. It was a stretch, but Spink could have made it at a lick.

  The crime scene tape had been removed and the key card reader now had an impenetrable black bo
x screwed over the top, with orders not to tamper. He guessed hoteliers didn’t like great stripes of blue and white interfering with their decoration. It would make the other guests nervous, guessing at what ghastly scene hid behind. With a killer on the loose, Dinwiddy thought they had a right to be nervous.

  Forensics had cleaned the blood from the door and buffed off the mark on the door across the hall: the door he now knew led to Donald Spink’s room. The attack on the train. A smoker in the victim’s room. The disappearing associate. He chewed over his progress and digested the facts.

  Dinwiddy checked his watch: Spink was likely to be back soon. He’d best get to the foyer lickety-split to relieve the manager he’d left on watch.

  The lift doors slid open and Dinwiddy stepped inside to join a handful of others: Japanese tourists, waving cameras and topped off with baseball caps. They swung their lenses around to capture the scene through the glass elevator as it swept down toward the foyer. There was a view to be had all right and amidst it, to Dinwiddy’s joy, was Mr Jackson, his hand on the shoulder of a bowed-up Spink, who looked like he wanted to get on his way. Dinwiddy strained to look past his lift-mates as they sank down through the lobby floor.

  “Goddamit!” He stabbed at the buttons and the lift slowed to a stop. The tourists shuffled out chattering, meandering off toward the shops and the station. Left alone, Dinwiddy made further stabbings at the button then took to clapping his palms together, fingers spread into a fan. “Come on. Come on.” The doors sighed closed and the lift eased back up to the foyer.

  Dinwiddy flung himself out of the doors and speed walked across to the manager and his charge.

  “Donald Spink,” he panted.

  “That’s right, Detective.” Mr Jackson nodded.

  Spink looked up at him with a raised sardonic eyebrow. “What is this?”

  “Sir, I am investigating the disappearance of one Jeremy Brian Adler.”

  Spink snorted. “Adler? Christ, I should have known. Look, I’m tired; I’ve got my own problems. Can’t this wait?” He tried to sidestep, but Dinwiddy was right there, blocking his path.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. This is an urgent police matter.”

  Spink waved a contemptuous hand at him. “I’ve got better things to do…”

  “Sir, are you aware that it is an offence to waste police time?” Dinwiddy noted that the suspect was not a co-operative man: just what you’d expect from a ruthless killer.

  “Well I hardly…”

  “I need to interview you under caution as part of my investigation, so I’d appreciate you accompanying me to the Detention Centre. You do not have to say anything…”

  “What? Am I being arrested?” Spink scowled in hostile derision.

  “… but it may harm your defence if you do not mention…”

  “Now wait a minute!” Spink took a pigeon step backward and raised his hand. Dinwiddy took it and snapped on a cuff. A grin pulled hard at the blank expression he wore.

  “Resisting arrest is a misdemeanour offence, sir. I would suggest that you come along now.”

  Spink’s jaw flapped. “This is ridiculous!”

  “You will be required to take a DNA test. It is a painless procedure.”

  “But what for?”

  “Forensic evidence at the crime scene. I need to eliminate you from my enquiries.” The hell I do, Dinwiddy thought: prime suspect under arrest.

  “Crime scene?” The smug expression drained from Spink’s face. Dinwiddy scooped him up at the elbow and strode for the door, propelling his prisoner on scuffling tiptoe.

  “Slow down, can’t you?” Spink whined. “Is it far to the squad car? At least can I have a smoke, officer?” He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and waved it.

  Dinwiddy allowed himself a smile. “Anything you do or say may be given in evidence.”

  Outside the doors, a resting pack of newshounds were roused from their easy chatter by the squawks of panic emanating from Spink. They tossed their half-eaten burgers aside and hauled cameras and a microphones to the fore.

  “Detective Dinwiddy! Detective Dinwiddy! Channel Six News. Have you found your man? Is this Adler’s killer?” The reporter from the previous day hopped from side to side in front of Dinwiddy and his charge.

  “Now, now, gentlemen. Let’s not jump the gun. Mr Spink here’s just helping us with our enquiries.”

  “In cuffs, Detective Dinwiddy?”

  “That’s right.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  RACHEL LET THE SHEAF OF PAPER FLOP OVER ON ITSELF. She wasn’t seeing the numbers anymore. Evidence of treachery that had made her blood boil the day before, had fallen out of focus. She only heard his voice:

  “It wasn’t meant to be like this,” he’d said. “I, I did it out of love. Fucked up, confused love.”

  She’d rolled the words around and around. What had Adam meant? He’d sounded drunk, barely coherent even. It had sounded like a confession, but he’d never really gotten around to the point and hung up. Crying? It was weird. Beyond weird.

  Was he in love with her? He hadn’t said it, but she’d felt such passion in his words. Why call her, if it wasn’t about her? “A fresh start.” Hadn’t he said that? “I couldn’t even stitch him up properly.” He’d definitely said something along those lines. Was he talking about Jerry? But Jerry was away. Did Adam think that there was something between them? Nothing made sense.

  Rachel pushed the now dog-eared credit card statement away, across the table and put her palms to her cheeks. Adam was a nice guy. He’d really helped around the place. She’d started to trust him, cried on his shoulder. In that moment when she’d fallen off the edge, consumed by the agony of motherhood and the disappointment in her spouse, she’d leaned on Adam too hard. The memory was uncomfortable now and tinged with regret. She shouldn’t have done it—it was a step too far. Jerry had been driving her crazy with his weak will and deceptions, but it wasn’t right to fall into someone else’s arms. She and Jerry—they had to sort it out themselves.

  Bloody Isabell. She was at the root of it all. Sensibly, rationally, Jerry would have to be crazy to be carrying on with her. He’d told Rachel about the nightmare of living with the woman, about all the threats she’d made when he’d wanted to move out, how she’d screwed him to the floor over money. The trouble with Jerry was that he was just too much of a pushover. Presented with the possibility of an affair with Adam, the nice helpful man, who, let’s be honest here, was not at all hard on the eyes, Rachel found that she wanted to believe that Jerry didn’t mean to hurt her: that he couldn’t help it. She wanted to believe that it was his generous nature that allowed people to walk all over him and take advantage. She was angry with Jerry, yes, but whose fault was it really?

  “Right. That bloody does it,” she said, and pushed herself up to her feet.

  ~

  The Fiat lurched onto Isabell’s driveway and stopped just after knocking over a terracotta pot of fading petunias. Rachel bowled over to the front door and hammered on its glossy surface until Isabell snatched it open.

  “What is this? What are you doing?” She pulled the black curls from her face, eyes skimming over the Fiat and its path of destruction. “My pot!”

  “Never mind your pot, you bloody scheming bitch! What about this?” Rachel waved the offending statement in Isabell’s face, catching the end of her nose with its flapping corners. Isabell slapped it away and grabbed at a page. She stared down onto it with wild eyes. “Where did you get this?”

  “I’ve worked you out!” Rachel shrieked. “Years it’s been going on for, years! Pleading poverty and innocence and bloody loneliness. Always someone else’s problem. Never you!”

  Isabell stood blinking, staring back at her.

  “It’s taken a punch in the gut, but finally I can see it. You’re blackmailing him, aren’t you? Manipulating him then using it against him. Admit it, go on!”

  Isabell stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “Jerry, he is
a man like any other. He cannot help himself. I’d be a fool…”

  “A fool?” Rachel cut in, “A selfish bitch is what you are.”

  “I am a woman, I need…”

  “You don’t need jack shit! You don’t need to spend twelve grand on manicures and blow-dries. Jerry has a family. A child.” She waved frantically at the car, where Peanut lay asleep in her seat. “A wife, Isabell. He has a wife.” Rachel locked eyes with her, breaking off only when the door opened behind them.

  An overweight woman, unnaturally black hair set into short even curls, huffed and puffed out onto the porch. “Ibbie, why you shouting in the street? This is no way for a good Catholic girl to behave.”

  Rachel snorted out a laugh. “You what?”

  “Who is this person?” She looked Rachel up and down with undisguised disdain.

  “I’m Rachel,” said Rachel, preparing herself for a skirmish.

  “That’s right,” cut in Isabell, “and she is just leaving.” She spun the other woman around and tried to force her back into the house, but the older woman had noticed the car and wasn’t about to go. “Why is Jerry’s car here?”

  “Because it’s my car,” said Rachel, folding her arms across her chest. Isabell gripped the other woman tightly around the shoulders and propelled her back into the house. “Mama, she bought it, yes. There is problem, it no work properly.”

  “About time your husband got rid of that piece of junk.”

  “Si. Go inside, Mama. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  “Well good luck,” Isabell’s mother huffed and lumbered away down the hallway.

  “Your husband? Your husband, Jerry?” Rachel raised a scathing eyebrow at Isabell who hurried to close the door. “Shh, can’t you!”