EQMM, August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Gus interrupted. “What's that?” he asked softly.

  The others followed his gaze.

  "Looks like a knife,” Doc Adams said.

  They crossed the room. On the floor against the far wall and under a lamp table was a squat, odd-looking knife with a wooden handle. Gus and Carters knelt on the floor and examined it, careful not to touch it. Gus glanced up under the table, his attention caught by a dangling wire.

  "Look,” he said, pointing it out to Carters.

  It was a heavy, old-style, cloth-insulated brown electric cord. It dangled from the free-standing lamp on the table above them. It had been cleanly severed, and a good three feet of cord, including the plug, was missing. Gus bent back to the knife. Slowly, he dug his reading glasses from his pants pocket and put them on. He lowered his face to just inches from the curved, slightly discolored steel of the knife blade. Clinging to the few serrations on the lower half-inch of the otherwise smooth blade were slight strands of brown insulating cloth.

  Gus removed his glasses and stood, tucking the spectacles back into his pocket.

  "Someone cut the electric cord with that knife. Dollars to donuts the medical examiner will find brown fibers to match that cord. Find ‘em embedded in the flesh of that poor old immigrant woman's throat."

  He turned and looked Chief Bill Carters in the eye.

  "You get the county lab boys to lift some prints off that knife, I'd say you caught yourself a killer."

  Doc Adams and the mayor both looked down at the knife. A moment later, young Officer DeVay joined them, his queasy stomach and shaky knees apparently bested by his curiosity. He shuddered when he saw the unusual, ugly little knife.

  "Imagine that,” the mayor said softly. “The poor old gal emigrates all the way from Braunau, Austria, only to get murdered in Central Islin, U.S.A."

  Doc Adams sighed. “Imagine that,” he said softly.

  * * * *

  "It was a shucking knife,” Bill Carters said as he and Gus took stools at the long wooden bar in The Green Lantern Tavern. It was eight o'clock Tuesday night, three days since the murder had shaken the town to its roots.

  "And old Dal Thomas, a clammer for most of his life,” Gus said, waving a casual greeting at the owner/barmaid, Mabel Taylor, as she approached behind the bar.

  "Right. Couldn't be any neater, thank God. Open and shut,” Carters added.

  "Good evening, boys,” Mabel said. “What can I get you?"

  "I'll have a glass of Pabst, dear,” Gus said.

  "Mabel, make mine Black Label,” Carters said.

  With their beers before them, the two men took up the conversation once again.

  "As I was saying,” Carters continued. “It's open and shut. The county boys got two partial prints off the knife—the rest were smeared some. But the ones they got were Dal's. And out at Dal's place on the Connetquot River, I saw a half-dozen shuckin’ knives just like the one from the delicatessen. Hell of a thing."

  Gus sipped at his beer. “You got yourself a motive yet, Bill?” he asked.

  Carters smiled. “Well, it sure isn't much of one, but, yeah, we've got one. Bobby DeVay was in the store about a week ago, and old lady Strauss complained to him that Dal had been running a tab at her place ever since she opened up. Owed her over a hundred, he did. Ellie wanted to know if the police could collect it for her. Guess that's the way it's done in Austria. She even complained to the mayor. He told me that himself."

  "So,” Gus said. “You figure Dal had an argument with Ellie over the tab, then got mad and killed her? That about it?"

  Carters smiled and nodded. “Yep, that's it. And the old man, Ellie's brother, Henry, he said they always left some start-up money in the store overnight. You know, to make change for the early customers. Maybe twenty dollars or so in small bills and silver. And when I checked the register on Saturday morning, it was empty."

  "So you figure Dal grabbed it on the way out?"

  Carters nodded. “Yeah. You know Dal. Always living hand-to-mouth, just getting by out at that old shack of his. Hell, he's still got an outhouse in the back and a hand pump in his kitchen sink."

  Gus nodded. “Well, I guess twenty bucks or so would mean something to him,” he said.

  "Damn right it would,” Carters answered.

  Gus frowned and took a long swallow of Pabst. He wiped a hand across his mouth and shook his head.

  "Still, though...” he said.

  Carters looked at him. After a moment, he sighed.

  "What, Gus? You have a problem ‘bout this?"

  Gus shrugged. “Not a problem, exactly. I wouldn't call it that. More like a bad taste. Like when I was a young man and I'd wake up after a long night of puffin’ on Lucky Strikes. A bad taste, that's all."

  They sat in silence for a moment before Carters sighed once more. “Well, hell, Gus. You know you're going to tell me sooner or later. Might as well be now."

  Gus waved for Mabel and another round. When she brought the beers and ambled away, he spoke.

  "Bill, I policed this town for thirty years. I know Dal Thomas pretty well. He's a lazy, drunken screw-up, and he was never much against a little petty larceny. But he's no killer. I don't mean this as a compliment to killers, but old Dal just wouldn't have the guts to kill anyone. Hell, he's a weakling and a coward. If that old lady lifted a broom to him, he'da run all the way back to the river."

  Carters sipped at his fresh beer. “So,” he said. “That's it? That cancels out the knife, the fingerprints, the unpaid tab? Dal was supposed to be at work in the clammery at seven that morning, but he was late. He's got no alibi from nine o'clock Friday night till he got to work on Saturday morning at eight, eight-fifteen. I figure he stopped at the deli early, on his way to work. Maybe for some coffee and breakfast. The old lady tells him no, she wants him to pay his tab. They argue, he kills her, grabs the dough from the register, and leaves. People change, Gus. Bad people get worse. Maybe Dal just got a little worse, that's all."

  Gus shook his head. “Dal never got to work on time in his life. And murder is a lot worse, Bill. Dal was never a violent man. Hell, he'd get loud right in here some nights after boozing it up, and Mabel would throw him out all by herself. Didn't even need to call me."

  Carters frowned. “So I guess you do have a problem with this. Right?"

  Gus nodded. “Maybe I do. And I'll tell you why. It's just too damn neat. Too simple. And how is it that folks around here live generation after generation and manage to not get killed, and then this woman, who we know next to nothing about, comes to town, and six months later, she's murdered? I'm thinking maybe, just maybe, it's a targeted killing. Premeditated. Not so random. That's all I'm saying."

  "Who would target an old woman who makes salads for a living?” Carters asked.

  Gus shrugged. “I don't know. Plenty of European immigrants around here, all over Long Island. Maybe it's a beef carried over from the other side."

  "Gus, I gotta say, that sounds pretty weak to me."

  Gus smiled. “Okay. Then answer me this: Dal goes into the store, like you say. Through the back door, which we know she leaves unlocked after she arrives in the morning. He argues with her about what he owes. Then, he takes out his knife, crosses the kitchen to the lamp table, climbs under it, unplugs the lamp, cuts the cord, drops the knife, and goes and strangles her? And what was she doing while all this was happening? Calmly going back to work on her potato salad? And if he had strangled her spur-of-the-moment like, he'da been tugging barehanded on that cord. Takes a lot to kill someone that way. Were his hands cut up? From the cord?"

  Carters silently sipped his beer. “No,” he said.

  Gus smiled. “See what I mean? Now, a high-priced city lawyer could do a lot with those uncut hands, Bill. ‘Course, old Dal won't have a city lawyer. Just some overworked kid just outta law school and with the public defender's office."

  Carters squinted into his beer. He spoke without looking up.

  "What are you saying, Gus?” he sa
id.

  Gus shrugged yet again. “Well, I'm not really saying anything. Just thinking out loud is all. But it seems to me, it makes a bit more sense that someone went into the place before she got there. Then, this person cuts the cord and waits for her. When she gets there, he strangles her. Just like he had planned."

  "There was no break-in, Gus. We checked. So did the county boys."

  "Well, the place has been there for fifty years. Who knows where all the keys are? And the brother would have a key, wouldn't he?"

  Carters banged his beer down in surprise, sloshing some on his hand. He turned full face to Gus.

  "My God, Gus! You're not accusing the brother, are you?"

  Gus raised both hands palm outward towards Carters. “I'm not accusing anyone, Bill. I told you, I'm just thinking out loud."

  After a few minutes of silence, Carters spoke. “Well, maybe it was premeditated. Maybe it was Dal who waited for her to come in. How else would you explain that shucking knife with Dal's prints and the fibers?"

  Gus smiled. “Well, I can't. There is no explanation. Unless, of course, it was a plant. A frame-up."

  Carters shook his head. “Gus, with all apologies, maybe the hot sun out on that farm of yours is starting to fry you a little. A frame-up? In Central Islin? Come on."

  Gus smiled and sipped again at the Pabst.

  "A murder? In Central Islin? Come on,” he said.

  They sat in silence for a full three minutes. Then, with his last sigh of the evening, Carters turned and spoke to Gus.

  "You think maybe you want to look into it a little bit?” he asked.

  Gus chuckled. “Bill, my friend, I thought you'd never ask!"

  * * * *

  Just east of Central Islin, thirty-five hundred acres of unspoiled, pristine pinebarrens surrounded a cold, crystal-clear, meandering stream known by its Secatog name: the Connetquot River.

  Most of the land was now owned by the exclusive Southside Sportmen's Club and served as their private realm for deer and fowl hunting, trout fishing, and trail hiking. The expanse was home to just about every bird native to the northeast United States as well as a variety of fowl, including canvasback, black duck, and gadwell. The property was criss-crossed with narrow, unmarked dirt lanes which accessed the hunting blinds and the stream, or as it was known to the locals, “the river,” at various points.

  Some four hundred of the acres were not directly owned by the Sportsmen. On one such acre near the southwest bank of the river, tucked in among the pitch pines, mockernut hickory, and oak trees, sat the ramshackle two-room wooden cabin of Dal Thomas.

  At eight o'clock Wednesday morning, Gus Oliver nosed his new Edsel around the last bend of a narrow dirt lane, careful to avoid contact with the shrubbery and tree branches which now, at the height of their late spring growth, intruded into the limited drive space. He pulled to a stop in front of the cabin, dirt and dust swirling lazily around the vehicle.

  As he knew he would, Gus found the cabin unlocked. Indeed, the plain pine-plank door did not even have an exterior lock, just a slide bolt on the inside. This was not Gus's first visit: He had been to the cabin on official business more than a few times during his tenure as constable.

  He quickly went through the two small rooms. The morning sun provided him with ample light for his search, and he had no need to power up the gasoline generator housed out back. His search was systematic and professional, although he was not really sure what he was looking for. Just something, some small thing that might bolster or weaken the case against Dal.

  Aside from the half-dozen shucking knives Chief Carters had told him about, Gus found nothing of interest. He made a note to tell Carters to return to the cabin to seize the knives: They should be tagged, bagged, and dated, then turned over to the county prosecutor as evidence.

  Before leaving, Gus made his way to the drafty wooden outhouse, nestled in a slight clearing in the oak brush thirty yards from the cabin. The musky, unpleasant odor within, along with the cobwebs and spiders, brought Gus back to his rural, carefree childhood. He smiled at the memories as he scanned the structure. Nothing.

  He returned to the Edsel, his mind drifting back to a simpler time.

  * * * *

  "Forgive me for this intrusion, Mr. Strauss,” Gus said to the elderly older brother of Ellie Strauss. “But it is necessary, sir."

  They sat in the small, Cape Cod-style house that the Strausses had purchased on their arrival to Central Islin. It was located a mile north of where Main Street crossed the railroad tracks and became Lowell Avenue. Gus noted the simple formality of the living room, a woman's touch evident in the Hummels, knickknacks, and prints of landscapes on the walls. He wondered how Henry Strauss would fare without the care and companionship of his sister in this new home, in this new town, in this new country.

  The man sighed sadly. “I understand, Herr Oliver,” he said, his voice thick with accent. “Police Chief Carters has called for to tell me you vould come to speak. Vat is it you vish me to tell you?"

  Gus smiled and shook his head. “Well, Mr. Strauss, I guess I don't really know. It looks like Dal Thomas is our killer here, it sure does look that way. But, you know, you folks are new in town. We really don't know much about you. Maybe you can tell me something, give me some information to maybe throw some new light on it all."

  Strauss looked puzzled. “Throw a light? I do not know this term. I am to throw a light?"

  Gus chuckled. “Forgive me,” he said. “Maybe I'll just ask you some questions. If that's okay with you."

  Strauss nodded. “It is okay, yes. Ask me."

  "Well, do you folks know anyone here in town? Maybe someone from the old country?"

  Strauss wrinkled his brow. “From Lambach? Austria? Here in this town? No. No, ve are alone here."

  Gus scratched at his head. “Well, sir, if I can ask: What made you choose Central Islin? I'd imagine it isn't very well known in Austria. Hell, folks sixty miles west of here in New York City never even heard of it!"

  "My sister, Elisa, she have a friend from the war time. Vhen ve vere in refugee camp. Her friend, Hilda, now lives in Bay Shore. She told Elisa about Long Island. Then the embassy help us find the Muller's Delicatessen for sale here, in Central Islin, and so ve come here. Bay Shore is not far. Elisa have a friend.” The man sighed, and his eyes began to fill with tears.

  "It vas to be good,” he said in a soft voice. “But now it not good. Elisa—she liked American name Ellie—she's dead. After all ve saw, all ve vent through. Now, here, in Central Islin, she's dead.” He shook his head and fought off the tears. “Not so good here,” he said.

  * * * *

  "I thought you was retired,” Dal Thomas said, hunched forward over the small gray table in the interview room of the county lockup in Brentwood.

  "Well, Dal, I am, I am,” Gus said with a smile. “But this killing, well, it's got everybody shook up pretty good. I just thought I'd help out a little."

  Dal's face reddened and he leaned even further across the table. He spoke in a breathless, anxious whisper, his eyes red-rimmed with fear.

  "Gus, you know me, you know me twenty years or better. I ain't a killer. Good God, I never even hurt a fly. Okay, I boosted a few things here and there, cut a corner or two. But why would folks be so quick to figure me for a murderer? A drunk, yeah, okay, but a murderer? You got to help me here, Gus, I swear on my eyesight I never killed that old lady. Hell, she's been feedin’ me for damn near six months. I'd be the last person to want to hurt her."

  Gus frowned and leaned back in his seat, hooking his thumbs into his waistband.

  "Well, now, Dal, I got to say that all does ring like truth to me, it really does. But—there's that knife. And your prints. And some folks are saying you were at odds with her over the money you owed her. There is all that, Dal. State prison is loaded with men that had a lot less against them than that, for sure."

  Dal fell back in his seat as though shoved. His face grew sadder and even more tens
e as he spoke again.

  "And some in the Attica gas chamber on less,” he said softly.

  Gus compressed his lips at the truth of it.

  "Chief Carters told me you are zero alibied. Is that right?"

  Dal nodded slowly. “Got drunk Friday night. Started at the Green Lantern about six-thirty. Left when I ran broke about nine. Finished up at my place with an old bottle of corn liquor."

  "What about Saturday morning?” Gus asked.

  "Woke up hurtin’ about seven. I made some coffee, got dressed, and drove to work. Worked my half-day, drew my week's wages, and went by the Green Lantern. That's when I first heard about the killin'. It was all anyone could talk about. Tell you the truth, it got me down some. I liked that old lady, I really did. So I left. Bought a bottle to go and went back home. Drank it all down. Didn't wake up till Chief Carters shoved them legal papers in my face late Sunday afternoon. I been locked up here ever since."

  Gus rubbed a hand on his chin. “Well, Dal, we just ain't got much to work with here, now do we?"

  Dal dropped his chin to his chest.

  "I guess we don't,” he said sadly.

  Gus stood up. “I'll keep looking at it, Dal. I promise you'll get your shake fair and square. In the meantime, you think about it. Might be you kinda drank too much. Maybe you're forgetting something. Maybe, just maybe, you did stop by that delicatessen Saturday morning.” He turned and walked to the door, locked from without and guarded by a sheriff's deputy. He knocked to be let out, then turned to poor, scared, pitiful Dal Thomas.

  "You think about it, Dal,” Gus said softly as the deputy swung the door open. “Just think about it."

  * * * *

  Gus made his way to the small farming and fishing community of Bay Shore, on the southern coastline of Long Island.

  "It's good of you to see me, Mr. and Mrs. Graber,” Gus said. “I thank you."

  He sat down on a high-backed chair in the small formal parlor at the ranch-style house of Hilda and Ludwig Graber, newly naturalized American citizens.