[Lady Justice 10] - Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders

by Robert Thornhill

  “Couldn’t he just be away?” I ventured.

  “Don’t think so,” she replied. “That’s his car --- the blue one right in front of your cruiser.”

  I looked at the cardboard box. It was addressed to The Midtown Book Club, c/o Larry Dunlap, and it was from Amazon.

  “Tell me about this book club,” I said.

  “Not much to tell. It started about a year ago and every once in a while the Club would meet in Larry’s apartment. I guess they rotated around --- but come to think of it, I don’t think they’ve been here in six months or more.”

  “Do you have a key to the apartment?” Ox asked.

  The lady held up a key ring.

  We climbed to the third floor and knocked on the door. When no one responded, Ox motioned for the landlady to unlock the door.

  Ox pushed the door open and announced, “Kansas City Police. We’re coming in.”

  Hearing no response, Ox stepped into the room.

  He quickly backed into the hall.

  “Better call for backup. We’ve got a double.

  “Ma’am, please go to your apartment and stay there until the detectives arrive.”

  We called it in, and within minutes, the street was filled with cruisers, the M.E.’s van and the meat wagon.

  Detective Blaylock met us outside the door.

  “What’ve we got?”

  “Two dead bodies, from what I could see,” Ox replied.

  “Anyone been in there?”

  “No, sir. I backed out as soon as I saw the bodies.”

  “Good man.”

  We cautiously entered the apartment and found two men, one with two gunshots in his torso and the other with a hole in the side of his head.

  A snub-nosed .38 lay on the floor beside his hand.

  “Has all the markings of a murder/suicide,” Blaylock said.

  Ox pointed to the novel lying between the bodies, “That would probably explain the book.”

  We both looked at him questioningly.

  “Secrets of Eden --- it’s the story of a woman who is killed by her husband and then turns the gun on himself --- murder/suicide!”

  We both just continued to stare at him.

  “What?” he asked indignantly. “I’m not just a pretty face. I read. In fact, I’ve been reading quite a bit since hooking up with Judy. Expanding my horizons, so to speak.”

  It was a side of my partner that I had not seen before.

  While Blaylock was taking a closer look at the bodies, something across the room caught my eye.

  “Detective, you’re going to want to see this. We may have just solved the liquor store murder.”

  Blaylock crossed the room and looked at the bank bag with ‘Northeast Liquors’ stenciled on the side.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “He looked back at the bodies, “I’d bet my pension that the .38 that killed these guys was the same one that killed the old man.

  “Sometimes we get lucky!”

  Oscar Roach was violating one of the ten rules for a perfect crime, ‘Do not watch television and avoid the newspapers’, but he couldn’t help himself.

  He had to see if the cops bought his elaborate ruse.

  The headline in the Kansas City Star read:

  ‘Murder/Suicide Linked To Liquor Store Death’

  “YES!” he said, pumping his fist. “They bought it!”

  He had never experienced what he was feeling at that very moment.

  His life, up to this point, had been dreary, to say the least.

  His old man had walked out of his life when he was six and with his single mom working two jobs to support the family, his formative years had been spent with a succession of babysitters that didn’t give a crap about him.

  Although he was more than capable of mastering his schoolwork, without encouragement from home, he soon became bored and dropped out at the end of his junior year.

  The next few years were spent bouncing from one menial job to another, which had culminated in his current position as a orderly at St. Luke’s Hospital.

  Now his days were filled with changing bedding, delivering meals and emptying bedpans --- and he hated it.

  The only bright spot in his miserable existence had been Liz, a nurse’s aide that he had met at the hospital.

  He had asked her out a few times and things seemed to be moving along.

  She had invited him to join the Midtown Book Club with her and he agreed, hoping that would bring him one step closer to getting into her panties.

  Then, abruptly, she left to go back to school, leaving him with that bunch of pathetic losers.

  In retrospect, however, he realized that the succession of mystery novels that he had read with the group had fired his imagination with the idea of committing the perfect crime.

  Now he had done it and it was the most exhilarating moment of his life.

  He read and reread the article, basking in the glow of his accomplishment.

  Then a thought occurred to him.

  He had read somewhere that the definition of a serial killer was someone that had killed three or more people over a period of more than a month.

  He certainly qualified based on the number of his kills --- he was just a bit ahead of schedule.

  Serial killer --- he was now in the company of guys such as Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy --- pretty heady stuff.

  There was one big difference --- all of them had been caught and he had not.

  Another difference was that these guys did some pretty weird stuff.

  He recalled Bob Berdella, another notorious Kansas City serial killer back in the eighties. He kidnapped young men, and tortured them in his basement for days before killing and dismembering them and putting their body parts out in the weekly trash pickup.

  He certainly wasn’t into any of that.

  It did bring a smile to his face when he remembered that Berdella’s home where the atrocities took place was less than a mile from his own dingy apartment.

  Inspired by this new revelation, he figured that he should learn more about the grisly group of men and women he was now associated with, so he fired up his laptop.

  He read that there were several categories of serial killers. Some killed for sexual gratification --- that certainly wasn’t him. Some killed out of anger --- he certainly wasn’t thrilled with his life, but that just wasn’t him either.

  Then he read a definition that fit him to a ‘T’.

  “The primary motive of a thrill killer is to induce pain or terror in their victims, which provides stimulation and excitement for the killer. They seek the adrenaline rush provided by hunting and killing victims. Thrill killers murder only for the kill; usually the attack is not prolonged, and there is no sexual aspect. Usually the victims are strangers, although the killer may have followed them for a period of time. Thrill killers can abstain from killing for long periods of time and become more successful at killing as they refine their murder methods. Many attempt to commit the perfect crime and believe they will not be caught. In one of his letters to San Francisco Bay Area newspapers, the Zodiac Killer wrote ‘killing gives me the most thrilling experience. It is even better than getting your rocks off with a girl.’”

  Oscar wasn’t sure that he could buy into that last statement, but it had been so long since he had actually done it, he couldn’t say for sure.

  He just knew how good he felt reading that morning headline, and he knew that he would do it again.

  CHAPTER 7

  After a week that had included three grisly murders, I was looking forward to a couple of days off.

  Sometimes, when man’s depravity becomes too intense, you have to just back away from it all, focus on what’s good in your life and put things back in perspective.

  Maggie had let me sleep in and I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. I could tell that this was going to be a good day.

  I ambled into the kitchen, gave Maggie a big hug and kiss a
nd headed for the coffee pot. After a year of marriage, I had learned how to order my priorities.

  Maggie was busily whipping Aunt Jemima with a spoon.

  “Pancakes, too! What have I done to deserve all of this?”

  “You’re going to need lots of energy today, so I figured I’d better start you off with a good breakfast.”

  Suddenly, a cloud darkened my prospects for a good day.

  “Energy? For what?”

  “Don’t give me that ‘for what’. Surely you remember when we talked about cleaning the apartment today.”

  Now I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes --- not often, but sometimes, Maggie’s little chats will zip right by, especially if I’m reading the sports page or otherwise intellectually occupied, but surely I would remember something as ominous as cleaning day.

  I had to make a split-second decision --- should I refute us ever having that conversation and try to wiggle out? No, I knew that either way, I was doomed to cleaning, so why bring insensitive, non-listening boob into the picture?

  “Oh, right --- sure --- cleaning. Must have slipped my mind. How much cleaning are we talking about, exactly?”

  “Everything! Top to bottom. It’s been months since this place had had a good cleaning.”

  I tried one more tactic. Maggie is still an active Realtor and has a woman that cleans vacant houses for some of her clients.

  “How about Consuela? Did you think about giving her a call?”

  “Consuela charges three hundred bucks to clean a place this size. Why spend all that money when we can do it ourselves? Do you realize how many meals at Mel’s Diner you could buy for that three hundred bucks?”

  I had to admit that she was good.

  I’m not opposed to saving a few bucks if it’s a job that I can handle, but a man has to know his limits.

  For instance, I can change light bulbs and replace light switches and sockets without electrocuting myself and usually, everything actually comes on when I’m finished, but I learned years ago that plumbing of any sort was not my cup of tea.

  No matter what I tried to fix, it always leaked when I was through.

  Cars are another thing that I have never mastered.

  I have friends that brag about changing their oil or putting on a new set of brakes, but there is not a doubt in my mind that if I tried, I would be washing my windows with 30 weight.

  Consequently, I’m on a first name basis with the guy at Jiffy Lube.

  House cleaning. Not a lot of experience, but how hard could it be?

  I dragged breakfast out as long as possible, but I finally had to face the inevitable.

  “Ok, boss. What’s the plan?”

  “Why don’t you start with the ceiling fans and give them a good dusting.”

  “Ceiling fans?” I protested. “They’re up in the air. How could they get dirty?”

  “Have you even looked at them lately?”

  I had to admit that I had not. I climbed on a chair and discovered that the blades had grown a fluffy coat of fur.

  “I see your point,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll dust and polish the furniture. I don’t want you touching our breakable stuff. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  I found our stepladder and a rag and climbed up to the first fan. I wiped the blade clean and gave it a shove. Blade #2 whacked me in the back of my head.

  “SON-Of-A ----” I muttered.

  Just then Maggie came into the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning the fans just like you asked,” I said, rubbing my head, “and trying to decapitate myself in the process.”

  “Why don’t you use the thing?”

  “What thing?”

  “Hang on.”

  She came back into the room with a big furry circular thing on a pole.

  “Here, this is what you’re supposed to use to clean the blades.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “You bought it when you bought the new fans.”

  “I did? Really? Where do we keep it?”

  “In the utility closet.”

  That explained a lot. The utility closet is where we keep things like the vacuum, the squeegee mop and the broom. I don’t go there.

  The thing actually worked pretty well and when I was finished I reported to the crew boss.

  “Fans are done. What’s next?”

  “The toilets and the floor around the toilets. Scrub them all.”

  “Why do I get the toilets? You use them too.”

  Maggie grabbed me by the arm, dragged me to the bathroom and lifted the lid.

  “See all of that yellow stuff? How do you suppose that it got there?”

  Nothing sucks more than that moment in a discussion when you know you are going to lose.

  “Okay, okay, you made your point.”

  I was up to my elbows in Lysol disinfectant when there was a knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Maggie yelled.

  A moment later, Jerry and the Professor were standing in the hallway watching me wash the yellow spots off of the floor. Not one of my prouder moments.

  “We were on our way to Mel’s for lunch and we thought we’d invite you to accompany us,” the Professor said, “but I can see that you’re --- ummm --- otherwise occupied.”

  “Yes, cleaning day, unfortunately. Sorry, I’d love to come.”

  “One of those necessary evils,” he continued. “Were you aware that most of the dust particles in a home are from the 2 to 3 pounds of dead skin that we shed each year?”

  I had to admit that I didn’t know that.

  He forged on, “And did you know that the dead skin and dust mites in a mattress can double its weight in ten years?”

  I didn’t know that either.

  Jerry had been watching me scrub the offending stains.

  “Walt, do you know what a clitoris, an anniversary and a toilet all have in common?”

  Maggie poked her head around the corner. “I know the answer to that one --- men always miss them!”

  “Very funny,” I mumbled. “Don’t you guys have somewhere to be?”

  “Indeed we do,” the professor said. “We’ll eat a piece of Mel’s banana cream pie for you. You know, the one with the meringue this high.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  Maggie stuck her head back in the door. “When you’re finished with the toilets, you can run the vacuum.”

  “Swell,” I muttered.

  As I fired up the old Kirby, I remembered a one-liner that Jerry had used in his comedy club act.

  “Is it a good thing if a vacuum really sucks?”

  It brought a smile to my face and I really needed it.

  I had just finished the bedroom and had started on the closet. The shoes were lined up neatly on the floor, but I saw a big piece of lint under one shoe.

  I bumped the shoe with the Kirby to move it out of the way and suddenly, “THWACK!” The Kirby had sucked up the shoelace and it had wound around the revolving head. The poor shoe was lodged against the head and the motor began to smoke.

  I quickly shut the thing off and surveyed the damage.

  The sweeper head looked like the first time that I had tried to cast an open faced reel --- nothing but a tangled mess.

  I was just getting the thing undone when Maggie came in.

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  She looked over my shoulder. “How long have you been working on that?”

  I looked at my watch. “About fifteen minutes.”

  “How long would it have taken you to pick up the shoe?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. I hate it when she does that.

  After the mess was untangled and the smoke cleared, I finished the vacuuming and headed to the kitchen.

  “Let’s clean out the fridge and we’re done,” Maggie said.

  “Really?” At last there was light at the end of the tunnel.

 
; I pulled the wastebasket to the fridge and opened the door.

  I don’t spend a lot of time in the fridge. I get milk for my cereal and Arbor Mist from the shelves in the door. Everything else is pretty much a mystery to me.

  I did recognize the first thing that I pulled out. It was the remains of the burrito grande that I couldn’t finish at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago, so I had had them wrap it up for me. I was pretty sure that the green stuff on it now wasn’t verde sauce.

  Maggie told me to get rid of anything that had expired.

  With most of the stuff, I didn’t even have to look for a date. The penicillin growing on the surface was a good clue.

  I saw a carton of sour cream and wondered if they even bothered to put an expiration date on it --- isn’t it already sour?

  By the time I had removed all of the offensive stuff, the shelves were nearly empty.

  I was tying the trash bag when Maggie came into the kitchen.

  “Are we finished?” I asked, trying to sound as weary as possible.

  “Just one more thing,” she said with a sly smile.

  “What could possibly be left to clean?” I asked, exasperated.

  “The shower. I was hoping we could work on that together.”

  Maybe it would be a good day after all.

  CHAPTER 8

  I had just finished my morning coffee when there was a knock on the door.

  It was Willie, my good friend and maintenance man.

  He had been with me during the years that I owned a portfolio of rental properties, and when I sold them, I gave Willie a small studio apartment, rent free, in the basement of my Armour apartment building in exchange for maintenance duties there and at the Three Trails Hotel, the only other building that I still owned.

  Having done so had proved to be a blessing in more ways than one.

  After becoming a cop, Willie’s ties to Kansas City’s underbelly, from his earlier days as a street hustler, had proved quite valuable in solving several crimes.

  But more importantly, Willie’s loyalty and quick action had saved my life more than once.

  “Morning, Willie.”

  “Monin’, Mr. Walt. You headin’ downtown?”

  “Yep.”

  “Mary called an’ wants me to replace some light bulbs. Could you drop me off on your way?”