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

by DL Cook

  Don sat and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Peggy half listened as she scrolled through the phone's history, writing down the numbers. She brought out her kit and dusted the phone for prints. Finally, Ted got to a somewhat relevant part.

  “Charles found the phone in the rich part of town.”

  “Where exactly?” Don asked.

  “I don't know. He now lives in the alley next to the Seven Eleven. They kicked him out from the front because they have a one homeless guy policy and Fred beat him to the door and made a deal with the owner not to hassle the customers for change too much...”

  Peggy left to scan the prints into her computer and to track the one other number, besides Duey's, that she was sure Charles the homeless guy had nothing to do with. She input it into the tracking program and prepared another warrant form. It turned out that she didn't need it. GPS had the phone on the road just outside the warehouse, with no movement at all. Either it was on a corpse or had been discarded by the roadside. Neither video nor audio were available.

  As she dialed Duncan, the fingerprint database told her that she had a match. Three, in fact. One was Tom's. The other Ted's. The third came with a mugshot. Charles Sanders, once arrested for lewd behavior in public. That was when Methton was a nice neighborhood called the Flower Estates.

  “That explains all the penis pictures,” Peggy muttered to herself. She was glad she handled the phone with gloves.

  “What's that?” Duncan said into her ear.

  “Oh hey, Dunk. You're still at the warehouse, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What's that shouting?” Peggy asked.

  “Um, Lucus just got here with Clyde. Now he's having an argument with Mort.”

  “Gotchya. Listen, can you do me a favor? I'm tracking a phone and it says it's on Pine, maybe a dozen feet west from the entrance of the warehouse parking. Can you do a sweep for me?”

  “Sure, you got it.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.” Peggy hung up.

  When she came back to the conference room Ted still told his story. It wasn't clear if anyone listened. Don called her over to show her which photos were matched with which missing person. Most seemed correct. They separated the dubious ones into a separate file. Peggy planned to search the records for the matched and possibly matched people. Maybe they had finger prints, dental records, or something else that would help them positively identify the bodies. She also thought about whom to farm out the burden of calling relatives to come in and claim the dead. Some of the matches were missing for over a decade. The perp had been busy for a long time. The evidence suggested that the bodies had not always been stored in the warehouse. Peggy wondered what they could find on a previous location. Perhaps there were even more there. If it was Mort, had he already covered it up?

  Lucus brought Mort to the station about an hour after he left. The Medical Examiner calmed from his earlier rage. One moment he screamed about how busy he was and how outrageous and unacceptable it was to interrupt him, and the next he quieted and said, “Okay. You got me. I know what this is.” He stared at Lucus through the rear view mirror with cold eyes. If that wasn't a sign of guilt, Lucus didn't know what was.

  He ushered the man into the interrogation room. Lucus hadn't cuffed Mort, as at this stage he was there for questioning and not under arrest. Suspects tended to clam up when they were read their Miranda rights. Besides, it wasn't clear Mort did anything wrong. They brought him in as a precaution. On the other hand, Lucus' suspicions were heightened during the ride to the station.

  So it wasn't a surprise when Mort pulled out a scalpel and put it to Lucus' throat.

  “Turn around please,” Mort said in a clinical voice. “Slowly. Ninety degrees to the right.”

  The man's breath made Lucus' skin crawl.

  “Hey now, take it easy buddy.” He recalled that Mort was a former Green Beret or Army Ranger or something like that. “Think about what you're doing.” Lucus regretted not telling Don his suspicions earlier. Now he might die for the mistake.

  The cold surgical knife pressed against his artery. Or was that on the other side? Mort definitely knew.

  Lucus caught a whiff of peanut butter.

  “Slowly. My you're sweating, Deputy Chalmers.”

  Don halted at the door. His eyes widened and he pulled his gun. Lucus gulped. His chances of being killed doubled.

  “Step away from Lucus,” Don commanded. The gun barrel precessed in a slow, shaky arc. Lucus swore to God that if He spared him, he would treat women with more respect. And call his mother more often. And—

  “Give me a moment,” Mort said behind and to his side.

  “I don't want any trouble...” Lucus said.

  “Shhhh. Hold still.”

  Lucus felt a prick. The bastard cut his throat!

  He wanted to move. To get away, to fight him off. But his body refused to move.

  “There,” Mort said and stepped away.

  Lucus swiveled and drew his gun. The coroner paid him no attention. He had something small between his fingers, holding it up to the light. The scalpel disappeared.

  “Get your hands up,” Don bellowed. He crept to Lucus' side.

  “While I appreciate what you're trying to do,” Mort leaned against the table, “I really do have to get back to work.”

  “Sit down,” Don said.

  Lucus felt his neck, then checked his hand for blood. Not a drop. He was lucky.

  “I said sit down.”

  “Fine,” Mort sighed. “They used to do this to me every year in the SF. Let's get this over with. But truly, I do appreciate it. I just think my time...” He slumped into a chair.

  “What's that in your hand?”

  “I believe it is a deer tick. We'll have to test it, though I believe we are far enough away from Lyme and Plum Island that Lucus is in no danger.”

  “Put it down. Slowly. Good. Where's the knife?”

  “My scalpel? In my coat pocket. Why?”

  “Take it out and put it on the table.”

  “Now really—”

  “Do it!”

  Mort complied.

  “Any more sharp objects on your person?”

  “No.”

  “You okay, Lucus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cuff him to the table and check his pockets.”

  “Now really, gentlemen. I must insist—”

  “Shut up.” Lucus holstered his gun and did as Don said. Mort was clean.

  They sat across from him. Mort smiled.

  “Normally I'd slide you a bunch of photos. But in this case you and your staff were involved in taking them. So instead I'm going to ask you why you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “All those bodies. Those people. Why did you kill them?”

  Mort chuckled. “Oh my. This is elaborate. Should I play along? You're not going to post this on YouTube are you?”

  “You had the means and the motive. It raised my suspicions, certainly. But I didn't think—I hoped it was just a coincidence and you'd explain it away. Partly because I liked you. Partly because you're the first competent ME we've had since I've been on the job. And then there's the headache of you fudging the evidence by investigating your own crime. I wanted to believe it wasn't you. I really did. But the way you've been acting, with that nonchalance and calling it 'play,' my doubts have evaporated.”

  Lucus nodded in agreement.

  Mort's face changed. “Wait. You guys aren't serious, are you?”

  “Damn straight we are.”

  Mort closed his eyes. He opened them slowly. “And I thought you remembered my birthday and this was an elaborate prelude to a surprise party.” He sighed. “How could you think I killed those people? Do I seem like the type? And anyway, some of them have been there for years. They've been dead since before I ever got to town. I never even heard of the place until I answered your Craigslist ad, Don.”

  “Oh really?” Don slid the property records to Mort.


  “What am I looking at here?”

  “Property transaction records. You see your name there? You see the dates? BS that you never heard of this town before you saw my ad. You were here the whole time, weren't you?”

  Mort swallowed hard. “This doesn't make any sense. Must be someone with the same name. Or a forgery. Did you look at the actual deeds?”

  Don glanced at Lucus.

  “Well, no,” Lucus stammered. “We weren't really looking into Mort, you know?”

  “Be that as it may,” Don said, “your name is here. Says you lost half a million dollars.”

  Mort scoffed. “I never had that much money to begin with.”

  “That's the motive to kill Councilman Hadiger. By your own admission, the same poison was used to kill Swinton. From our investigation, we know that Charlene Atkinson, who killed Swinton, spent a lot of time at the warehouse working for someone. That someone has to be you.”

  “That makes no sense. If I did it, why would I tell you about the poison?”

  “To throw us off. To ask precisely that question.”

  “Oh, come on. Go check the deeds. Until then I'm exercising my right to remain silent.” Mort tried to fold his hands. The cuffs didn't let him. He sighed. “I just hope Clyde doesn't mess anything up,” he muttered. “Mrs. Klump did not teach him well.”

  As the County Clerk's office was closed for the day, Don had Mort moved to a cell. “Get on it first thing tomorrow morning,” he instructed Lucus.

  Lucus nodded, scolding himself for not having done so earlier. He wanted to blame Tom, but it wasn't the big doof's fault.

  “In the meantime, I want to know where all of Hadiger's money went. And make sure someone's at the warehouse to supervise Clive's work. I don't mean the uniforms we got over there. I mean someone who knows what they're doing.”

  “Peggy has Duncan over there,” Lucus said. “About Hadiger's money—he was gambling online.”

  “How do you know”

  “All the withdrawals are by companies that have 'online' and 'casino' in their names.”

  “Alright,” Don had stopped listening. His serious expression became a smile. Libby carried a white box, which she set down on the conference room table.

  After kissing Don hello and waving to Lucus she said, “I heard Mort was here.”

  “Yeah, he's here,” Don became morose again.

  “Good,” Libby said. “I baked him a cake. Chocolate peanut butter with banana cream.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because it's his birthday, cranky pants. Look at the drawing I made.” She lifted the lid.

  It said, “Hapy birthday Mort!!!” in squiggly orange letters. Lucus couldn't tell what the drawing was.

  “You missed a P,” he said.

  “Oh klumpers. You're right. Do you think he'll notice?”

  Don sighed. “But why did you make him a cake?”

  “Because I was baking the whole day and remembered it was Mort's birthday,” Libby said.

  “I thought you were looking for missing pets,” Don murmured.

  Lucus moved away from the couple, still listening but not wanting a part in what might become a spat (or a “spiffy,” as Libby called it).

  “I decided to do a bake sale instead.”

  “Who's going to buy your cakes?”

  “Cookies, silly. And don't worry. I already sold them.”

  “To whom?”

  “A bunch of peoples.” Libby tapped her lip. “My mom. My uncle. Me. I know I'm not supposed to eat sugar, but I couldn't help it. Okay?”

  “And how much did you make?” Don's voice grew deeper, quieter, and yet somehow louder.

  “One hundred bucks,” Libby said. “Aren't you proud of me?”

  “And how much did you spend on the ingredients?”

  “I don't know. Maybe one fifty, two hundred. What? Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you'd be proud of me.”

  Monday

  Travis' phone rang.

  “Hold on a sec,” he placed his cell on the counter. He wrapped the old woman in another round of tape to the chair. This one wasn't escaping from him. He didn't do as pretty a job with her as she did to that other woman (who continued moaning in her gag), but he thought it sufficient. He slapped her face lightly to make sure she was still alive. The way he figured it, that first woman tied to the chair was the real Mrs. Marlow. And he and Chester had come upon a robbery of Chester's house. This other woman, in her pleas for mercy revealed that she was a social worker, recently fired and helping her former clients out of property they didn't need.

  Travis grabbed the phone. “Alright. Talk to me.”

  “Never put me on hold again,” a woman screamed into his ear.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, mother?”

  “I have a job for you.”

  “And what makes you think I'll do anything for you after our last conversation?”

  “If you want to ever be in my good graces you'll do what I tell you when I tell you.”

  “Will you give me some money?” Travis had taken back what the fake Mrs. Marlow stole from him plus a little extra, but he'd need a lot more to leave town.

  “Yes. Now listen.” She instructed him on how to alter records at the County Clerk's office.

  “Why can't you send your man to do it?”

  Ingrid's phone creaked with her tightening grip. “I don't know where he is. If I had someone else to do it, I wouldn't call you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Stop being smart and listen. There's a senile old clerk that runs the records office. Getting in should be no problem. If anyone asks you, just tell him you're his nurse or something.”

  “Like his social worker?”

  “That'll do,” Ingrid said. “The clerk's name is Chester Marlow. Hold on so I can give you his address.”

  “No need for that.”

  “Don't show off about how you can look it up. Just let me give it to you so you don't look like an idiot calling me back to ask later.”

  “I'm already there, mom.”

  “What? You are? How?”

  “Long story. So what is it you want me to change?”

  “Grab a pen and write these addresses down.”

  Travis copied several addresses on Mrs. Marlow's stationery.

  “Now this is very important. Change the names of the grantors to Mortimer Freeman. Grantors, okay? Not grantees. Sooner or later a cop is going to come in asking for all of the transactions Douglas Hadiger was involved in. Probably the crippled black or that handsome lad with the retard, or maybe Don Mettler himself. I'm starting to regret making him the commissioner.”

  “You reap what you sow. You had a good thing going with Wally and the drug import. How'd you blow that again mommy dearest?”

  “Shut up, boy. You'd still be in prison if that weren't for me. Now, if you do this thing right, the cop will look over all the files and conclude that Mortimer Freeman had something to do with our precious bodies at the warehouse. Give us some breathing room, see what we can do about that trail of bodies you left.”

  “I'll get on it. Wire me some money.” Travis said.

  Wednesday

  “How'd you get a signal from it even though it's broken like that?” Don asked about the phone Duncan recovered near the warehouse.

  “Most people don't know this. Many phones have a second, hidden battery. It powers the mic and also allows us to track it,” Peggy explained. “So even when the main battery is removed, we can still do a roving tap on the device.” She had the broken cell phone connected to her laptop. Peggy hoped that the phone's internal memory wasn't damaged.

  “Alex Jones has been saying this for years,” Tom made a clapping motion. “The year of Alex Jones,” he whispered.

  Peggy was excited too. She lifted a good set of prints off of the phone. They matched a set found at the warehouse. Their owner was still unknown.

  “Could it be Mort's phone?
” Don asked. “I mean, he's been around the warehouse all this time. He could've been using it there and then dumped it.”

  “His prints aren't on it. Mort's in the system.”

  “Of course he is,” Don scratched his chin. “So we'd know if there's any accidental contamination of the evidence, like with Tom and Ted,” he squinted at Tom, who gave him a thumbs up. Ted snored in the corner.

  “Actually, he was in the system before. Was arrested for...” she blanked on the name of the perversion.

  Don nodded. “Oh yeah. Some kind of philia. Something to do with peanut butter and corpses. He listed it on his resume, under interests. Maybe he's always been honest with us.”

  “Having doubts about his guilt now that his fingerprints haven't been found?”

  “I wouldn't say that. He could've used gloves. The fingerprints could've come from the clerk in the store or whoever made the damn thing in China or wherever.”

  “I like Mort,” Libby countered her husband. “And, um, um, what was I going to say? Um. The prints on the phone were also found in the warehouse. So it couldn't be whoever made or sold it. They must belong to someone involved with the bodies.”

  Peggy smiled. “She's got you there.”

  “Yeah, well...” Don grumbled.

  Just as Peggy was about to give up and start filling out a warrant form to get the phone's records from the phone company, a dialog box appeared on her screen. “Here we go, people,” she said. The phone's recent calls popped up when she pressed OK. There were just two numbers. One she recognized as the phone Ted recovered.

  Peggy copied and pasted the second into her tracking program. She hit enter and waited for the map to load. A dot appeared and the map centered on it. “We got him, whoever it is.”

  “Tom, Lucus, follow us. Libby you're with me,” Don rose and slid on his jacket. “Keep us updated over the radio.”

  “You got it,” Peggy said. “Be careful. They're probably armed.”

  The phone was in a dark place, probably a pocket. Muffled dins of cutlery came from the speakers.

  “I hope it's not a pizza place or something,” Don moved out of the conference room.

  “No. It's a private house. Definitely a cell phone. Could be the guy that called Duey.”

  Don stopped and Libby crashed into him. “But that was the phone Ted got, no?”

  “Doesn't mean the guy didn't have more than one burner phone.”

  Don nodded and headed out. Peggy again urged caution.

  “Got my vest on,” Lucus winked.