Done Rubbed Out

by Jeffery Craig

  “No, Melba. What don’t we have?”

  “We don’t have any footprints or visible means of entry into the crime scene, in spite of all the blood in the room. We don’t have a murder weapon. We don’t have a clear motive, even considering Misters Bailey’s and Guzman’s past relationship. And you’re thinking I’m frustrated? Frustrated my middle-aged menopausal ass! At least we don’t have what passes for the press up in our business yet.”

  She looked toward the door as a smug looking Officer Helliman stepped inside. “Detectives, I thought you should know that the press has arrived.”

  “Thanks so much, Officer Helliman. That’s just great.” For some reason, she had the impulse to snarl right into his ugly face, just for the satisfaction, but Sam’s steady hand on her shoulder helped her to maintain some decorum. She’d never liked Helliman, but had never been able to pinpoint the reason. “Probably because he’s a big, pain-in- the-ass, red-necked jerk.” She watched as – with another headache inducing rattle – the gurney was wheeled through the open door into the bright camera lights waiting outside.

  “Now my evening is absolutely and perfectly complete,” she said, shaking her head and rubbing her temples. “Either this job is starting to get old or I am.”

  Sam snorted at her comment, proving the old adage that partners started to pick up each other’s mannerisms after a while. “You gonna' bring Mr. Bailey in, Melba?”

  “I can’t decide. I probably should, at least to hold him a while until we get some more answers. But you know what?” She grinned sheepishly at her partner, “No matter how frustrated I am at him and this situation, I really don’t think he did it. Mr. Bailey has done absolutely everything he should as an upright citizen and friend or – or whatever, of the deceased. He didn’t disturb the scene, he kept his head and he called us. He’s cooperated so far, even though it took longer than it should have to get the story out of him.” Reightman thought through everything she’d learned up to this point, and shook her head. “I just don’t like him as a suspect. Maybe I’m wrong, but without a motive or a murder weapon tied to him, it’s probably fine to let him go home for the night and come into the station tomorrow.”

  “You mean later today, pard’ner.”

  She looked at her watch and grimaced. “God, it’s late. I’ll go cut him loose and have him drop by the station in the morning. Make sure to assign a couple of officers to stay here for the night.” She gave him an evil little grin. “Make sure Helliman’s one of them.”

  Sam chuckled, but shook his head at her suggestion. “It’s not like you to hold a grudge, Melba.”

  “Sure it is, Sam. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a changed woman these days.”

  Reightman turned to make her way down the hall and noticed her feet were splashing in the foamy puddle forming on the polished brown floor. “What the hell?”

  Tom Anderson hurried through the door to the hall. She noticed the bottoms of his pant legs were drenched, and had frothy, white bubbles clinging to them. “Detectives, you better come see what we found.”

  “What is it, Anderson? And where is all of this damned sudsy water coming from?” She grabbed her purse off the back of the chair and slung it over her shoulder.

  “From the washing machine.”

  “What washing machine?” she asked as they slogged their way through the pink-tinted water.

  “The one in the break area. It started backing up a few minutes ago. We got it stopped, and opened the lid to see what was going on.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the thing was crammed clear to the top with stuff. Everything was all just wedged in. It overbalanced, which probably caused the overflow problem.”

  “What was in it?” she asked, sure she didn’t really want to know.

  “Come on back and see for yourself. It’ll be easier to show you than to try to explain it.”

  They all crowded into the room where Laurie was in the middle of photographing a sizable pile of wet material. Reightman plunked her purse down on the small breakroom table, propping it up carefully so it didn’t fall over. They all just looked at the pile of wet stuff. Reightman looked at Jackson, and then looked at Laurie and Tom. Laurie and Tom kept on looking at the things on the floor. She found herself getting fidgety, and right when she couldn’t stand it anymore, Jackson piped up.

  “What’s all of that mess, Laurie?”

  “It’s a bunch of towels, Detective Jackson, and a couple of sheets. And a pair of tennis shoes – which may match the partial print on the floor. And, some clothes.”

  “Clothes?’ Reightman recalled a similar conversation from about an hour earlier, and started to get a very bad feeling about where things were headed.

  “Yes, ma’am. We think they must be the dead man’s clothes.”

  “Why were they in the washer?”

  “Probably to get the blood out.”

  She should’ve known better than to ask. “Probably so,” she agreed. Her night didn’t seem likely to end anytime soon. She looked around the small room and indicated the other appliance. “Anything in the dryer?”

  “No, ma’am, but Laurie did find something else.”

  Laurie glanced up at Tom and then back at Reightman with a tiny, proud smile. “Yes, I sure did,” she said, indicating the first big find of her career. Reightman's eyes drifted to where the finger pointed, and saw a long-bladed knife lying in the mess of wet towels and clothing. It looked like a hunting knife of some sort. The name ‘TOBY’ was engraved on the hilt in capital letters. Jackson carefully knelt down, trying to avoid wetting his slacks. He took a good long look and whistled through his teeth. “Looks like we have the murder weapon, Reightman.”

  “Yes indeed, Jackson, I think we do.” She pointed at the hilt, careful not to touch it. “Look here. It’s telling us plain as day who it belongs to. Lucky us.” She rubbed her tired face and straightened her messy wrinkled jacket. Her shoes were soaked.

  “Officer Mitchell?’ she called out to the cop who had warned her it was going to be a bad night. He’d been right, after all.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Let’s go round up Mr. Bailey. We’ll be taking him to the station.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She nodded to Jackson and the two techs, and took a last look at the pile of wet towels, sheets, athletic shoes and clothes. She considered the knife gleaming from the wet mess, and at the engraved and incriminating name on its hilt. She watched the pink liquid, already starting to swirl around and down the small drain set in the floor. “What a waste,” she said.

  Reightman turned, hoisted her big heavy purse unto her shoulder, and sloshed through the small puddles down the hall to arrest Mr. Toby Bailey on suspicion of murder. “It’s a shame,” she told herself. “For some reason, I kind of liked him.”

  She hitched up the bottoms of her soaking wet sweat pants, and as she passed the large photograph in the reception room, she recalled Mr. Bailey’s words from earlier in the evening. “Sometimes the only things that do any good are pulling your pants up, uncrossing your arms, and getting on with what needs to be done, no matter how bad, or boring, or hard it is.”

  “Indeed,” she thought. “Yes, indeed.” She savored the cool, air-conditioned air for a moment longer, and then headed down the hall to take Mr. Toby Bailey into police custody.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TOBY’S EVENING WENT from bad to worse. “They actually locked me up in a cell. In a real, honest to goodness cell – like a criminal!” Toby looked around the tiny room with its two utilitarian metal cots, small sink and – heaven help him – a not anywhere near to spotless toilet exposed for anyone to see. He shuddered. “No matter what, I’m not going to use that – I’ll pee in the sink first.”

  After being cuffed, read his rights, and escorted to the waiting squad car under a barrage of harsh light and shouted questions, Toby found himself in a situation he’d never really thought he might be in. It rapidly went from bad to worse. On
ce at the station, they removed the cuffs. Then they fingerprinted him, snapped photos, and confiscated his belt, his keys, the few bills and coins in his pockets, and finally, his wallet. His shoes were presumably still back at the spa, and the police had retained his satchel. He signed a form acknowledging their receipt of his belongings, and the police asked if he wanted to make a call.

  Of course he wanted to make a call.

  Problem was – he wasn’t sure who he could call. He did realize he should probably get a lawyer since things were looking pretty bad. He really didn’t know a criminal attorney since he’d never needed one before. He did know a lawyer though – one he thought was pretty good. But he didn’t know the number. He hoped there was a phonebook he could borrow.

  After being steered to the phone, he discovered there wasn’t a phonebook. He looked at the escorting officer.

  “Problem?” the officer grunted.

  “Uh...yes. I don’t know the number.”

  “You don’t know the number?”

  “Jeeze, is this guy deaf?” As politely as he could manage, he tried again. “No, I’m afraid not, and there doesn’t seem to be a phonebook anywhere.”

  The officer looked at the small attached shelf underneath the wall-mounted phone and then scratched his head. “There isn’t a phonebook.”

  Toby took a slow, deep breath. “Yes sir, that’s right.”

  When the officer didn’t respond, Toby took another breath. “I think I might have a card with the number on it in my wallet.”

  It took the officer a minute to process the new information, but he finally nodded his head and hitched up his pants. “Okay. Come with me.”

  Toby followed the cop back to the collection station where, after a lengthy explanation and a search of the surrounding area, the bored clerk stared blankly back at him and shrugged.

  “It’s right there on the desk behind you,” Toby pointed at the wallet, apparently surprising both the officer and the clerk standing behind the glass-enclosed intake area. Both of them took a step back and eyed him suspiciously. Was it his imagination, or had the uniformed officer moved his hand closer to his weapon? He lowered his arm and briefly closed his eyes. Slowly and calmly he explained, “I can see it right over there. It’s the black tri-fold right by the big stack of files.”

  The clerk turned around, ever so slowly, and walked over to the desk. “This one?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  She picked up the wallet in question, turning it over a couple of times as if she’d never seen a wallet before. After looking at his escorting officer for confirmation, the clerk pushed it, ever so slowly, through the small cut-out depression at the bottom of the window.

  The officer was watching him intently, so Toby opened the wallet, slowly, and extracted the card. He held it up between his thumb and index finger, so they could both see it. “This is the card I need,” he enunciated carefully. Toby turned to walk back to the phone alcove.

  “Stop!”

  He froze, and then turned back around to face the officer. “Yes, sir?” he asked, feeling sweat trickling down his back. He really needed a shower.

  “Let me see that!” the officer demanded, holding out his hand.

  “Uhhh…sure.” Toby handed the card to the officer. He took it and as Toby had learned to expect at this point, very slowly read it, moving his lips while mentally sounding out the words. He eventually finished and looked back at Toby. “You have to leave the card here.”

  “But, I need the number.”

  “You have to leave the card here.” When Toby didn’t respond, the officer looked at the clerk and at his nod, she slowly pushed a single post it note through the opening and then, very, very slowly, pushed through a short, stubby pencil with a dull lead. They watched him as if the two objects were potentially dangerous weapons. Toby retrieved them and the officer placed the card on the small ledge in front of the window. Toby positioned the small piece of paper and picked up the pencil. He looked at the card and started to turn it over. Both the officer and the clerk reacted immediately and stepped closer. He raised both hands, one still holding on to the stub of a pencil, and said very softly, “The number is on the other side.” The officer reluctantly nodded and stepped back. The clerk continued to watch him suspiciously.

  Toby quickly turned the card over and wrote down the number, checking it twice to make sure he had it correct. He carefully placed the pencil and the card back through the small opening. The clerk picked them both up grudgingly – and slowly – and placed the card back in the wallet. She put it in the wrong place, but Toby decided it was better not to comment. He held up the post-it note so the officer could see it. The officer reached out, took the paper and read the numbers written there. He then handed the paper back to Toby and escorted him to the phone.

  Toby positioned the slip of paper carefully on the shelf, lifted the receiver and dialed. He waited for the call to go through, but nothing happened. He placed the receiver back in the cradle, and turned to the waiting officer. “The phone isn’t working.”

  The officer gave a mournful sigh. “You have to dial nine first.”

  “Thanks.” Toby lifted the receiver again, dialed nine, and then the number he’d written down. The phone on the other end rang. And rang again. And again. A voice he recognized as a recording announced, “You are reaching Green Dragon. All lines busy. Or maybe no one here. Or we sleep. Leave message after beep and we call back.”

  “Now isn’t this just great?” Toby asked himself, wiping away a trickle of sweat from his neck. He left a message as instructed. “Yes…this is...ah…this is Toby Bailey from across the street. You helped me do all the paper work for the spa. I need help. I’m in…in j-jail.” He hated it when he stuttered. “They think I killed Geri.” He paused while trying to think of what else to say. “Please come when you get this…thanks.” He placed the receiver back in the cradle and turned toward the officer who stared him down for a minute and then nodded toward small shelf.

  Toby picked up the post-it note and placed it into the officer’s waiting hand. The officer examined it for a minute, wadded it into a tight little ball, and with very careful aim, threw it toward a small metal trashcan in the corner. It sailed through the air and, with a small ping, it hit the rim, bouncing once before dropping into the receptacle.

  “Two points!” the clerk cheered.

  “Score!” exclaimed the officer with a happy grin. Then he frowned and hitched up his pants again, before escorting Toby to his cell.

  And there, Toby sat with nothing to do. After a while, the lights were turned off, except for one in the hall. He lay down on his back and pulled the rough, thin blanket over himself, trying to get comfortable. He wondered what was going to happen. He hoped that someone would come to help him. He wiggled around, trying to find a position which would keep the cot slats from digging into his shoulder blades. He rolled over onto his side and thought about meeting Geri that first summer.

  School was out, graduation was past, and the summer beckoned. Sure, he still had to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life, but he had three whole months to worry about that. Right this minute the only thing Toby was worried about was getting out into the sun and getting a start on his tan.

  He tugged a pair of bright yellow board-shorts over his narrow hips, toed on an old pair of sneakers and slung a beach towel over shoulder. With a flourish, he snagged his sunglasses off of the dresser and regarded himself in the mirror. “Looking good!” he grinned, and arranged a stray lock of hair. He grabbed a bag containing his sunscreen and a few magazines and headed to the kitchen.

  “I’m going to the pool, Grams. Time to work on my tan!”

  His grandmother was drying dishes, and turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. “Honey, don’t you look spiffy! Got your sunscreen? You know you can’t be too careful.”

  “Yes ma’am, I sure do. I don’t want to get all wrinkly like some people I know!

 
She snatched the dishtowel off the edge of the white porcelain sink and swatted his behind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about young man. The only wrinkles here are on those shorts of yours. Don’t you ever iron ‘em?”

  “Grams, how many times to I have to tell you swimming shorts aren’t supposed to be ironed? When they get wet, the wrinkles just fall out.”

  “Don’t give me any of your sass! What time do you think you’ll be back?”

  “I’m not sure, but I shouldn’t be too late. What are you fixin’ for dinner?”

  She grinned at him and put her hands on her ample hips. “What makes you think I’m fixing anything for dinner, Toby? I seem to remember that it’s your night to cook.” Ever since his grandfather had passed away they took turns cooking, although during the school week Grams usually did more than her fair share.

  “Um…I thought maybe fried chicken would be good.”

  “Toby Bailey! You couldn’t fry up a chicken if your life depended on it. Last time you tried I thought you were gonna’ burn down the kitchen. When you finally wrestled that poor burnt-skinned bird onto the platter and we cut into it, it was raw! I never did figure out how you managed that!”

  Toby laughed, remembering that disaster. “Well then, we’ll have tuna casserole. I do that pretty good.”

  “Tuna casserole it is. Your culinary skills are about up to that. I look forward to it with utmost anticipation.” She smiled up at him with love and then swatted him again. “Now get on out of here!” she commanded as she turned back to the sink. “I’ve got things to get done and want to get in some beauty rest before I eat the fancy dinner you’ll be making.”

  “Grams, you’re already beautiful!” Toby gave her a big hug and headed to the pool.

  “Dang it’s hot!” He worked some more lotion into his arms and checked his color. It was about time to turn over. He dug through his bag and pulled out another magazine. After flipping through and dog-earring a few pages, he checked the position of the sun. Deciding it was time to rotate a little, he readjusted his beach towel, scooched the recliner some, adjusted the incline and turned over. He decided to face the pool, just in case something worth looking at happened along. It wasn’t likely, but still, it was worth a try. The pool was mostly filled with screaming kids splashing water at each other. Most anyone he secretly found attractive was probably out on the lake or starting summer jobs. Not that he’d be obvious about looking – he knew better than that.