The Klumps Mysteries: Season One (Episodes 1 through 7)

by DL Cook

  “Haven't met him yet. Libby got the report. She may have more to say after her nap. But he came from the big city with the highest recommendations. Marcy was against it, says he's sloppy and plays with dead bodies, but you know her.”

  Peggy chuckled. She answered her phone. “Interesting. Okay. I'll be right there.” She dropped the phone into her lap and said to Don, “Duncan found a video surveillance system at the diner. We missed it last night because it was dark. I'll let you know what we find.” She rolled out of the room.

  Don reclined back in his chair. A few hours later his cell phone startled him awake. “Mettler-Klump.”

  “Hey Mettler,” Libertad's brother Tom said. “I wake you?”

  “No. Just working really hard, piecing together the evidence.”

  “I think I found a couple witnesses. Two teens said they saw something last night.”

  “Did you question them?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?” Don braced himself.

  “I'm taking them to the station for questioning.”

  “Are they handcuffed in the back of your car?”

  “Yep.”

  “But we discussed this. You only arrest people when they commit a crime in front of you or when you have a warrant.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.” He breathed hard into the phone. “You want me to let them go?”

  Don sighed. “Might as well bring them in.”

  Now that the diner was closed Libertad went home to make lunch. Don stayed to question the teens Tom arrested.

  “These are the kids right here,” Tom pushed them into the interrogation room. “Get in there, get in there,” he gave them his psycho look. Sweat dripped from under his hunter's cap. His massive gut expanded and contracted with heavy breathing.

  “Cut down on the pizza. It's going to kill you,” Don said.

  “I'm trying. Gotta hit the gym,” Tom pawed his big belly. “What's for lunch?”

  “She mentioned something about Ethiopian food,” Don said. Libertad loved experimenting with new cuisines.

  “Oh well. Pizza it is.”

  “You're putting that guy's kids through college.”

  Tom chuckled and slapped his belly again.

  Don examined the kids. Seventeen years old, boyfriend and girlfriend. High, the both of them. He read something about unreliable witnesses, but at the moment it escaped him. As they didn't complain, he didn't apologize. “So you guys saw something last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you see?”

  “We was in the parking lot, just sitting in my dad's car, you know?” The blond boy said, his hand around the girl's shoulder. Both chewed gum and had the vacant look teenagers get when they talk to adults.

  Don asked them to elaborate.

  “There was this guy with a dog by the dumpster. He left kinda in a hurry, you know?”

  “Did he hold anything besides the leash?”

  “Yeah. He was carrying something in his hand.”

  “Any idea what it was?”

  “No.”

  “A gun perhaps?”

  “Could've been,” the girl said. “It was long and dark.”

  “Like my—” the guy's girlfriend elbowed him in the ribs.

  “What time was this?”

  “I don't know,” the guy said.

  “Around 10:30. 'Cause I had to be home soon and my parents called.”

  “What can you tell me about the guy?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Was he short, tall, fat?”

  “Skinny,” the guy said.

  “And tall,” the girl added. “And he had long hair.”

  “Oh yeah, and he had like a trench coat or something on. It was open and his junk hung out.”

  “You hear anything?”

  “Yeah. Firecrackers, maybe. I know a couple of kids who set them off around there sometimes.”

  “How many firecrackers?”

  “I dunno. Maybe two or three?”

  “You heard it around the time you saw the guy?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Don thanked the two for their cooperation and set them loose. “Good job, Tom. Just remember not to arrest witnesses in the future.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Tom looked up from his cellphone porn.

  Libertad brought lunch. The food's odor filled the room. Don and several officers checked their armpits to make sure they remembered to wear deodorant.

  “You forgot the forks?” Don probed Libby's bag.

  “You're supposed to eat with your hands, silly. It goes with injera bread. But I didn't have time so I brought regular bread.”

  “Your mom didn't make it, did she?” Don recalled his last bout of food poisoning.

  “No. Remember that bread machine I got myself for Christmas?”

  A faint bell rang in Don's head.

  “I used it to make fresh bread. Now dig in and tell me you like it.”

  Don did as instructed. It didn't taste like armpits. Despite his initial skepticism Don enjoyed it. He was sorry there wasn't more. Tom sat across from them, devouring a pizza pie. The rest of the crew assembled, and Lucus found the bottle opener for their beer. On his third bottle, Don filled them in on what he had so far. “We're looking for a tall man with long hair and a dog. His balls might hang out. That's got to be our killer. Anyone have any idea who it might be?”

  Libertad pursed her lips. “Sounds like Bob P.”

  “Who?”

  “Um, um, um. This guy. He walks his dog and leaves dog doo. Some of the shop owners complained. Also, I think Arthur goes to church with him.”

  Don stroked an imaginary beard. “Tom, find out where this guy lives. Lucus, you find anything interesting in the dead guy's apartment?”

  Tom balanced his empty pizza box on the mountain of trash before leaving to find his uncle.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Lucus replied. “Mr. McCaliker had a girlfriend. She lives there too. She wanted to know if she should identify the body.”

  “That's a good idea,” Don said. He opened his fourth beer. “In here it says family members and friends are often the murderers. Lucus, find out about McCaliker's family. Does he have any brothers or sisters? Maybe this Bob P. is his brother. Also check into the girlfriend. Find out where she was last night and if she might have any reason to kill her boyfriend.”

  “Will do. Thanks for the food, Libby.” Lucus trotted out.

  An hour later Peggy came with the hard drive containing the diner surveillance footage.

  “What are we looking at?” Don asked Peggy and Libertad.

  “The ground, next to where we found the body,” Peggy explained. “It's either shoddy work or whoever set it up had a reason to put it at such a strange angle.”

  Don nodded to mask his lack of understanding.

  “There! Stop! Go back!” Libertad cried.

  “What is it?” Peggy complied.

  “Oh, I don't know. When they do that on TV they find evidence,” Libertad explained.

  Peggy resumed the footage. She showed them the relevant parts. “At 9:57 a dog takes a dump,” Peggy tapped her long red fingernail on the screen. “See how it's yanked away by its leash? Someone scared them off. There, you see the feet. He's chasing the dog and its owner. Steps in the crap. That's the deceased, by the way. Boots match, and there's dog crap on them. He goes back a minute later.” She fast forwarded. “There, that's him going back into the diner.” Peggy forwarded the footage once more. “Now at 10:23 he comes out again. That's his feet. He goes out of view. Whoever he's talking to never goes in the frame.” She hit the forward button. “At 10:25 there's two flashes. See it? That's McCaliker getting shot. Then,” she forwarded a couple of minutes, “the dog is back. See it? It's grainy, I know, but that's its tail, et cetera.”

  Don nursed his fifth beer. He suppressed a belch. “Working theory,” he said. “A Bob P. has his dog take a crap near the diner dumpster. McCalike
r catches him in the act. Confronts him. Maybe some words are exchanged, and so on. Bob P. gets mad. He comes back half an hour later and kills McCaliker.”

  Peggy and Libby agreed with Don's assessment.

  “What I don't get,” Don continued, “is why the guy who called it in, a,” he flipped through his notes, “Robert Powell—why didn't he see the perp? He just found the body he said.”

  Libertad furrowed her brow, harnessing all of her mental resources.

  “Bob P. and Robert Powell are the same guy,” Peggy suggested.

  “Um, um, um, um, um, so, so, so, so, what was I going to say?” Libby said as she often did when her mouth got ahead of her brain. “She could be right,” Libby got it out eventually.

  “Get in there” Tom interrupted Don's concentration. The deputy pushed a handcuffed man into the interrogation room.

  “Who's that?” Libertad asked.

  “Duey McCaliker,” Tom said. “Lucus switched jobs with me. Had me bring in Duey, the dead guy's brother.”

  Don wobbled to his feet. “What did I tell you about arresting people?” The room spun around him. “Did he break the law?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Then why is he in cuffs?”

  “Um.”

  Don smacked his brother in law's head. The hulking man whimpered away. Libertad went after him to make sure he was alright.

  “Terribly sorry,” Don slurred at Duey. “But thanks for coming in to make a statement.”

  “No problem,” Duey said. He rubbed his tattooed wrists. “Me and Tom go way back. We were in the same class all through school.”

  “I'm sorry about what happened to your brother. I hope you don't mind answering some questions to help us catch the killer.”

  “Anything I can do to help. You mind if I eat in here? Haven't had my lunch yet.”

  “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. You want a beer with that?”

  “No thanks. I'm straightedge.”

  Don eyed him with suspicion. “What's that?”

  “I don't drink or do drugs,” Duey unwrapped a funky smelling candy bar.

  “You don't drink?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Don reminded himself not to have his opinion of Duey's lifestyle choices cloud his judgment. Libby was always into trying new food. “What's that you're eating?”

  “Fermented tofu jerky. It's vegan and gluten free.”

  A tofu eating, tattooed man who didn't drink. Don immediately suspected Duey as the killer. “Just as a formality, can you tell me where you were last night between 10 and 11?”

  Duey thought about it. “I was at home watching TV.”

  “Was there anyone with you?”

  “No, I was by myself.”

  That sounded like a shoddy alibi. Don's heart raced. “What did you watch?”

  “Deadliest catch.”

  “Can you tell me what it was about?”

  Duey could and did.

  Don's suspicion eased. “Do you know if your brother had any enemies?”

  “Yeah. There was this guy, Robert Powell. His dog kept crapping in the back of the restaurant. My brother's been chasing him away almost every night. He said he called you guys, but...”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “That's right. Powell even threatened him the other day. Do you think it's him?”

  “Sorry, I can't comment on that. But you've been very helpful.”

  “No problem. Can I get a ride back? Tom sort of kidnapped me from my house.”

  Don called Tom in. “Drive him home.”

  “Get over here,” Tom took his handcuffs out.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “Sorry, Mettler. I forgot.”

  “I warna see my lawyer,” Powell insisted.

  “Like I said before, he's on his way.” Don rubbed his temples. Whoever said coffee was a hangover remedy was an idiot. “We know that you killed Joe McCaliker. Your dog's on tape. Witnesses place you at the scene, carrying a gun. We have a witness whose name we won't disclose at this time. He says you threatened to kill his brother Joe McCaliker. You don't have an alibi. Make it easier for everyone. Confess.”

  “I didn't do it. Where's my garddamn lawyer?”

  “You will cease and desist badgering my client,” Norman Mettler shoved past the door with his briefcase. “Now get out of here and let me confer with my client.”

  Don stumbled out of the room. He dozed on an uncomfortable chair across from the interrogation room.

  “Wake up. Come on, wake up.”

  Someone kicked Don's sneakers. His eyelids didn't want to open.

  “Are you drunk? Drink some coffee,” Norman told him. “What the hell are you doing? Arresting innocent people, drinking on the 'job.'”

  Don groaned.

  “Come on, stand up and give your pop a hug.”

  Don did as instructed.

  “Now I'll tell you what. You're going to apologize to Mr. Powell and then you'll let him go.”

  “Sorry, can't do that dad.”

  “Why the hell not? You got nothing on him.” Norman shook his head. “I don't know why you 'work' here. You have a good head on your shoulders, my stupid boy. How much does this 'job' of yours pay? You got your law degree. You passed the bar. You could've been a millionaire already, doing this childish police work as a hobby.”

  Don rolled his eyes. “Every goddamn time,” he muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Don stared at his feet.

  “When will you grow up? Look at me when I talk to you. You're thirty five years old—”

  “—thirty one—”

  “—You're thirty five years old and you still act like a child. How long before you realize that you can—don't sigh at me. Don't look away.”

  “Dad, I'm not letting Powell go,” Don steadied himself against a wall.

  “We'll see about that. The writ of habeus corpus has already been drafted. I just have to file it. Youl have a lawsuit on your hands.”

  Don sighed. “As you know, Joe McCaliker was murdered. Powell did it. We have him at the scene—”

  “Spare me the summary. I heard it. It's wrong. Now you'll go in there, question my client, and then you'll let him go.”

  Don staggered back to the interrogation room, but he wasn't about to set Powell loose. Coughing behind the mirror made Don straighten. The prosecutor had arrived.

  “Alright, Mr. Powell. Let's go over this again.” Don pretended his father wasn't glaring at him. Libby strode in to give him support. With renewed strength Don said, “You had a confrontation with Joe McCaliker around 10 last night. Don't bother denying it. We have you on tape.” Don thrust photos of the deceased across the table. Psychological pressure, the manual called it.

  “Yeah. So whart of it?”

  “McCaliker chased you away. So you got angry. You came back with a gun. Do you own a rifle, Mr. Powell?” Don fingered the gruesome photographs.

  “That's narn of your bursness what I harve and don't harve.”

  “What an interesting accent you have there, Mr. Powell. Did you pick it up in prison?”

  “That's irrelevant,” Norman said.

  “You ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, loaded your gun, and came back around 10:30. You shot McCaliker. Twice. Once in the gut. He squirmed in front of you, begging for his life. Then you shot him in the head. Isn't that right?”

  “I didn't do it!”

  “We know you were there. We know you threatened the deceased. We know there was animosity between the two of you.”

  “If I did it, why did I call it in?”

  “To throw us off the track. But here's a question for you. Why did you call from your house, half an hour after?”

  “I left my phone at home. And I'm allergic to peanuts.”

  Don stammered, “But we have you on tape, and witnesses...”

  Libertad's hand tightened on his.

  He regained his composure. “And the gun you were seen holding?�
�

  “My client carries a big stick when he walks his dog, as is his right. Now, he is willing to acknowledge that he has disobeyed the ordinance to pick up his dog's litter. He's willing to pay the fine. But this murder nonsense...we will drive the town into bankruptcy. I will not stand idly by as my client's rights are violated.”

  The prosecutor popped her head in. “Don, a word with you?”

  “What's up Leslie?” Don stepped out into the hall.

  “You're going to let this guy go. The evidence doesn't hold up. And he's suing the town for $10 million.”

  “He's guilty. If we can search his house I'm sure we'll find the murder weapon.”

  “That won't happen. Let the man go. And find the real killer, if there is one. Marcy's been on the phone. She says it's suicide.”

  “She says everything is suicide,” Don scoffed.

  “Either way, let Powell go.”

  Don told Lucus to cut Powell loose. “Also, bring the girlfriend in. I want to see if there's a cheating/jealousy angle.” He didn't know why he bothered. Powell was their man. Or that Dooby, with his vegan tofu, tattoos, enlarged earlobes, and no alcohol.

  Brenda Hollis, girlfriend of the deceased, came to make a statement. Libertad escorted her to the interrogation room, the conference room at this time being used for a foosball tournament. A shiny wrapper in the overflowing garbage can attracted Libertad's attention.

  “Did you eat this?” Libby narrowed her eyes at Don. She didn't like it when he cheated on her food. And she didn't like it more if he found something new and tasty and didn't share it with her.

  “Uh, no.” Don said. “I think it was that tattoo guy, Dooby. Yeah, the dead guy's brother ate that. Smelled terrible, some sort of tofu. You sitting in on this interview?”

  Libertad missed the question. She rushed to the locker room for her jacket.

  “That better not be the doing of what we ate earlier,” Don called after her.

  Libby felt for the wrapper in her pockets. It crinkled in her hand. She compared the wrappers. Identical. She jostled past the foosball players to Don's desk. She shuffled among the clutter for the “clews” folder. Not there. Nor was it atop Don's to be filed pile. Libertad scanned only the surface. To do a more thorough search risked toppling the precariously balanced tower. She found it on top of the garbage. Stupid Arthur. Libby copied down Duey's work address and flew out the door.

  The foreman pointed the way. Libertad traipsed around heavy machinery and pallets. Burly men wearing hardhats supervised the one guy working. Libby found Duey in an out of the way corner soldering something. It took a while to get his attention because of all the clatter.