Tip a Hat to Murder

by Elaine L. Orr

  Before Dingle could do more than sputter, she said, “Got a call. Thanks Mr. Dingle,” and hung up.

  She wrote the check and placed it in her outbox to be mailed to Crusher. She added a note asking Hammer to call him to see if he wanted to pick it up.

  Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, frowned, and expelled a breath. What a waste of time.

  Now, the harder task. Elizabeth had to find out which of Logland’s officers knew about the gambling. Someone should have heard about it.

  Her brow cleared. The Super Bowl pool at the station was popular. Perhaps the guys knew there was one at the Bully Pulpit but didn’t know about Ben taking a cut.

  Maybe they didn’t realize that the upstanding business owners of Logland wagered on probably every baseball game. It wasn’t as if bettors would volunteer the information to the local cops.

  Her style was not usually to buzz people to come to her. Instead, she walked from her office into the bullpen. The only officer on hand was Frank Hammer, standing at the counter.

  A very agitated woman faced Hammer across the counter. He seemed to be taking down information on a lost dog. Elizabeth cringed at every lost animal report. Somewhere, a child was sobbing.

  She busied herself at the pigeon holes that held each staff member’s mail, checking her own and then glancing at all the names.

  The chime above the exterior door jingled. Elizabeth briefly studied the woman’s red coated back as she glanced up and down the street.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  She met Hammer’s gaze. “You watch the tape?”

  “Yep. Specifically, a CD. The tape has from maybe midnight until eight or so. You can see us in there a bunch after Calderone found Ben.” Hammer wrote “Logland Police” on the outside of the CD sleeve.

  “Looks like the security guy used his phone or a camera to film parts of the VHS tape and then make a CD. He turned it off and on, so it showed the cash register only when someone was near it.”

  “Huh. Not a bad idea, for starters. Thank God he didn’t splice the tape.”

  Hammer first seemed puzzled, then said, “Jeez, I get what you’re saying. I’m not too familiar with actual film.”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Me either. And spliced tapes give the impression of tampering. Having the digital short version will save time initially. But I still want someone to go through the full tape.”

  “Yeah, I set it up the VHS in the break room. You can pop the CD into your own computer.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the wall clock. The day was going too fast. “Any thoughts after you watched it?”

  Hammer nodded. “Nada until near the end. Ben’s at the register, and he’s pretty irritated when he talks to someone. This is, oh, maybe six-thirty yesterday morning. Close enough to when he was found that it could mean something.”

  “But you don’t see the person?”

  “Nope, and I looked at what Ben put in the register that time. Cash, not credit card.”

  “If these were some of the few bills in the drawer, we can see if there are prints.”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure somebody gets that cash. Unless you already put it in evidence.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t. Honestly, it never occurred to me.”

  “So, I watched the short one, but if you’re better at lip reading, maybe you can figure out what he’s saying.”

  “I will. So, second, I have a question, but I don’t want it to be taken as an accusation.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She smiled, and stood next to him at the counter, gazing across it toward the street. “Did people generally know Ben was the focal point of a lot of sports betting?”

  Hammer shrugged. “A lot? I think it was just him and a couple people like Squeaky and that insurance guy. Beals. Not regular, I don’t think.”

  She rested her arms on the counter and focused on the brown awning above the display window at Doris Minx’s pastry store, across the street. A sign in the window advertised pumpkin bread and cookies. “I think we were meant to think it was occasional.”

  “Damn. You want me to…” he paused and faced her.

  Elizabeth turned away from the counter to study him. “As you see the others, ask them. Money changed hands for food, tips. Probably wasn’t hard to hide wagering or payoffs.”

  “Damn. No tips at the end, but people’d still be forking over cash to pay for food.”

  “Right.” Elizabeth frowned. “Nick and Marti said they were hunting for jobs because Ben ended tipping, but they sure don’t come across as killers.”

  “Yeah. Calderone’s niece dated Nick in high school. She said,” he hesitated, “she thought he would have a hard time planning something complicated.”

  “Wouldn’t have to be complicated, I suppose. Maybe not even planned. But I don’t like either of them for it.”

  “Me either.”

  Elizabeth studied Hammer’s profile. “I talked to Steve Johnson. He said Ben let him go a few days ago because the diner wasn’t bringing in much.”

  “Dang. Didn’t know that. Seems like a lot we didn’t know.”

  “I’m not sure Marti and Nick knew. You know Johnson well?”

  Hammer seemed to consider the question. “Played linebacker in high school here. Left for college and came back, I hear because he hoped to inherit his parents’ business.”

  “He didn’t? What was it?”

  “They had that copy place near the college. They turned it into sort of an Internet café when students started submitting work digitally.”

  “The business is gone, or did it move?”

  Hammer nodded. “Gone. Too little work, I guess. Anyway, I hear Johnson was pretty bitter about it.”

  “His parents get work somewhere?”

  “They retired to Florida. So, they came out all right, and Johnson’s stuck here.”

  Elizabeth faced Hammer. “Nothing holding him here, is there?”

  “Guess not. Hard to leave a place you know sometimes.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. She had. “Going to be hard for him to find another job in this town. You see him getting mad enough at Ben to stab him?”

  “No, but what the hell do I know? I thought Ben was Mr. Church Mouse and he was a bookie.” Hammer picked up the scrap of paper on which he had been writing moments before. “People thought there was a lot of money in there, could be almost anybody’s motive.”

  “Yep.” She nodded at the paper. “Lost dog?”

  “Gerbil. Like we’d find that.”

  AFTER DOWNING ANOTHER cup of coffee, Elizabeth took the CD from where Hammer had left it in the break room and went to her office.

  Despite its older equipment, the security firm was worth every penny it earned. They had apparently put their digital recording device on a tripod directly in front of a TV running the full VHS tape. The picture was clear and unwavering. Though their stop-and-start method wouldn’t be what the prosecutor would want later, it was going to save Elizabeth a lot of time now.

  Ben wore a white shirt and black pants, plus a short apron tied at the waist. In several frames, his order book stuck out of one of the pockets, which were near his belt.

  He had not been wearing the apron when found. Elizabeth recalled it had sat, folded on the counter near the pass-through. That made sense if he was going off duty. Was he?

  Now and then you could tell someone turned the tape off and on, but all in all it was clear filming. The depiction showed people at the register through early morning, with time stamps on the top right.

  Elizabeth had forgotten that Ben’s complexion was usually pale. Or maybe since he had to let Steve Johnson go he rarely went outside. The overall impression was not one of good health.

  Most of the images seemed useless. The camera had been pointed at the register from behind, so that the customer’s face was clearest. Ben was most often in profile, though his face was full-on sometimes if he walked close to the register as he went back and forth to the kitchen.

/>   A very tired Gene appeared about one AM. Elizabeth was initially surprised to see him so late, but remembered that his tattoo parlor was open from four PM to midnight. So, one AM was a logical time for him to grab a bite.

  Gene yawned widely as Ben handed him change. Ben’s profile seemed calm, and he smiled at something Gene said.

  The cash register was busiest between about twelve thirty- and two-thirty AM. Elizabeth remembered the Sweathog library closed at midnight, and Nick or Marti said students came by for a late snack.

  Most of the night Ben appeared near the register as he marched from the kitchen with plates of food and mugs of coffee, or carried dirty dishes to the kitchen. All too often, he rang up sales alone, apparently taking money from the customer at a table and returning change directly to them. Ben appeared rushed a few times, but never angry.

  At six-fifteen the morning of his death, Ben was at the register when someone’s entry apparently made him happy. His smile was broader than the perfunctory one he had given customers all night.

  Elizabeth leaned closer to the screen, almost willing the new person to come into view. Instead, assuming the editing was correct, the time stamp went from six-fifteen, when Ben walked away from the register, to six-forty.

  That seemed odd. Usually Ben would have been near the register as he carried food from the kitchen. He must have known the person well enough to sit in the booth to chat.

  When Ben appeared at six-forty, he moved stiffly, was out of view for a few moments, and strode back by the register carrying a fresh mug of coffee. He was frowning, then seemed to deliberately clear his countenance.

  What was that all about?

  This time the camera stayed on the cash register for almost two minutes, with no Ben visible. Then he came into the picture again, shoulders back, frowning, and clearly angry. He had a few bills in his hand, and punched keys on the cash register. The drawer opened.

  It was six-forty-seven AM. Ben pointed a finger toward someone in the diner, someone to his left. However this time he looked left at the person he was talking to. His lips were visible.

  At almost the same time, Ben reached behind him, and so was partly out of camera view. When he appeared next, he rammed the white baseball cap on his head. Did he plan to leave soon?

  Elizabeth moved the cursor back, and watched his lips as he talked. He rarely spoke when at the register. After she rewound several times, it appeared Ben said, “I will not.” Then he seemed to say, “It’s my money.”

  So, it came down to money. It could be a robber he was talking to, but Elizabeth didn’t think he appeared at all fearful.

  He put the bills into the drawer, and pushed it shut firmly. Saying nothing else, he walked to his left.

  The security company had kept its digital recorder on the register for the next minutes without a human. At about five minutes after seven, Calderone appeared, guiding Nick and Marti to the kitchen. Nick stared ahead, and could have been in an ad for a zombie movie. Marti was crying and had her hand over her mouth.

  Once he had them in the kitchen, Calderone appeared again, striding toward the seating area, his phone at his ear.

  And that was it.

  The digital device continued to film the VHS tape, but its contents had become her staff standing or walking by the register. She stopped the CD and leaned back in her chair.

  On the surface the tape seemed to confirm that Ben’s attacker was not a random robber. Or perhaps he, or she, was. Elizabeth leaned to a male, but only because men committed a larger proportion of violent crimes.

  The person Ben seemed glad to see could have left. His anger the last time at the cash register could have been with someone he did not know, a stranger who first appeared as a customer and then robbed Ben while he was standing near a booth.

  That theory only worked if Ben had money in his pocket to hand over. Or maybe he didn’t and that irritated a thief, who then stabbed him.

  Stabbed him just below the knee? Since Ben was not likely standing on a booth table, how did the attacker end up on the floor? A shoving match perhaps. Maybe Ben was even trying to run away.

  Poor Ben. Elizabeth had just watched his last hours, but she was no closer to knowing his killer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE WEED AND FEED OWNER had told Elizabeth and Skelly that he was glad to see them Wednesday evening, but Elizabeth knew that was far from the truth. Though Harvey’s customers were entitled to order marijuana-laced brownies and garlic crackers, if people recognized her they might not.

  She scanned the restaurant, which the fire department had determined could serve sixty people at once. When it became the first eatery in southern Illinois that could legally sell recreational marijuana, people swarmed to it from as far away as St. Louis and Champaign.

  Within a month, other restaurants got licenses to sell marijuana-laced goodies, so the Weed and Feed’s scuffed wood floors and paneled walls had gone back to hosting no more than forty people for dinner.

  The very back of the restaurant -- Harvey had seated them as far from other diners as possible -- was quiet enough for Elizabeth and Skelly to talk.

  Skelly grinned at her across the table. “You’re a business buzz kill, lady.”

  She shrugged. “Not like I’m in uniform.” She gestured at her boot-cut jeans and dark green turtleneck. “And most of the people eating tonight have no idea who I am.”

  Nick’s loud voice boomed across the dining room. “Hey, Chief Friedman, did you hear me and Marti got jobs here?”

  Skelly laughed. “They do now.”

  “That’s great, Nick,” she called.

  Nick turned back to a table of twenty-somethings, all of whom had their heads craned toward Elizabeth. She did a small wave in their direction and all heads whipped back to their menus.

  Skelly closed his menu and gave Elizabeth an appraising stare. “So, why did you want to eat at this place? I didn’t think you’d even been in here, and I know you don’t eat pot.”

  “I came when Harvey opened. I told him he could tell people the place was so legal the chief of police ate here.”

  “No kidding.”

  She smiled. “I also told him there weren’t the kind of accepted indicators for marijuana impairment that there are for alcohol, but he’d still want to make sure his customers weren’t weaving when they left here.”

  Skelly shook his head. “No wonder he was so glad to see you.”

  Elizabeth reached for her water glass. She and Skelly had become friends during the two years she’d lived in Logland. They’d had a couple casual dinners because, as he put it, they’d seen some naked bodies together.

  She thought they each wondered if more would come of it. After a couple of awkward kisses on her front porch, their relationship had evolved to a comfortable friendship.

  She reached for a breadstick. “I heard Marti and Nick had been hired, but I didn’t know if either would be working.”

  Skelly’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to come here to talk to them. They’d have to come to you.”

  “I know, but I want them to feel comfortable around me. At least a little. They must know more about the diner than they’ve told me.”

  Skelly did an exaggerated sigh. “So we aren’t here because you wanted my fascinating companionship.”

  “As long as you keep the morgue jokes to yourself, you’re good company.”

  A harried female server in her early twenties came to the table to take their order. Her apron sported a marijuana leaf and what looked like a lot of brown sauce. “Special is barbequed pork on a bun. You can have it with mild or spicy sauce.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the woman. “I’ll take the mild, with coleslaw.”

  Skelly opted for a double cheeseburger with fries.

  When the server moved away, Elizabeth asked, “Haven’t done any clogged artery exams lately?”

  “Beef once a week won’t hurt me." Skelly frowned lightly. "Now, what is it, really?”

  “Y
ou know me too well.”

  In a casual tone, he said, “As well as you’ll let me.”

  Where did that come from? Because she had no idea, Elizabeth ignored the comment, and asked, “So, what was Ben killed with? Any hair or fiber that belonged to anyone else?”

  “Written report should get to you tomorrow. Some kind of serrated blade, like a steak knife. Nothing to implicate anyone. If you find knives you want me to try to match, I can do that.”

  “And he bled out so quickly because it was the femoral artery?”

  “Yeah. You have to get to someone almost immediately with a wound in that big an artery. If you don’t, even someone who lives could easily sustain brain damage.”

  “So why such a low stab wound?”

  “No Munchkins in town, so I figure someone was on the floor. Maybe kneeling, maybe sitting.”

  “And maybe Ben pushed them there?”

  Skelly grew more business-like. “No way to tell, of course. We figure he was stabbed from behind, which explains why there are no defensive markings, like from a punch or grabbing a hand holding the knife. He probably didn’t even try to shove someone away.”

  “So, no real evidence. I want your hunches.”

  He adopted a sort of Chicago gangster speech pattern. “Based on what I saw, I got nuttin’.”

  “And based on what else?”

  Skelly held one hand across the center of the table and wiggled it. “Also nothing, but you knew he was the local bookie, right?”

  Elizabeth let out a frustrated sigh. “Seems I’m the only one in town who didn’t. But I can’t find anyone he owed a lot of payout money to. Heck, for all I know, he was the little guy and he passed money up to someone.”

  “I always thought he was pretty small-time. Night he died was a big Cubs and Cards game. Should have been a bunch of bets on that.”

  Elizabeth sat up straighter. “As in maybe money in the diner with him. Cash drawer still had money. If he had betting money in a pocket or something, maybe someone grabbed that and ran.”

  “Who would kill for what was probably a few hundred bucks or less?”