Head Shot

by Otho Eskin

  “I often visit your lovely city. I hit the Lollapalooza Festival only last year.”

  I may have gone too far this time. Granger gives me a hard look. I’m afraid he’s having a hard time controlling his temper.

  “What you tell me is very serious,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic. “I’ll do everything I can to help you find this missing man.”

  This time I mean it.

  Granger gives up and says he has to get back to Chicago. I don’t know whether he believes me about what I know or don’t know about the Chicago murders. Probably doesn’t believe a word I say.

  I give him ten minutes, then make my phone call to Jovanovich. The phone rings ten times without an answer. Am I too late? Have the Russian hit men found Jovanovich and already dispatched him as they had the chess players? Maybe Jovanovich is looking at the caller ID and deciding whether to answer. Maybe he doesn’t recognize my name. Maybe he’s too scared to answer the phone. Too scared to find out who’s on the other end of the line. Or worse, maybe it isn’t Jovanovich who’s looking at the phone right now. Maybe it’s one of the bratva enforcers, an uninvited stranger who’s wondering who’s calling and whether this is a loose end that must be attended to.

  A voice comes on the line, hoarse and shaky. “Who is this?”

  I recognize the voice: from the back room of a hardware store somewhere in Chicago, an old man clutching a bent Camel cigarette.

  “Milan?” I ask. I don’t use a last name. I don’t know who else might be listening.

  “My friends have been murdered,” the voice at the other end whispers. He must remember my voice because he doesn’t ask who I am.

  “Where are you, Milan?” I ask.

  There’s a silence, finally: “They’re after me. They killed my friends.”

  “I know.”

  “They’ve been to my home. They want to kill me.”

  “You never told me what you planned to do when I told you where General Drach was hiding.”

  “We did what had to be done.”

  “You should’ve told me.”

  “It was better you not know. If I’d told you, you would have been … what is it you call it in English?”

  “An accessory.”

  “That is right. An accessory.”

  He has a good point. I was probably better off not knowing what would happen once I told them where to find General Drach. Would I have gone ahead with my search for Drach if I had known what was in store for him? I don’t know.

  “Who’s looking for you?”

  “The men who killed my friends. I don’t know their names. They’re not from around here.”

  “The Chicago police believe they’re Russians from Brooklyn, New York.”

  “I hate Russians.”

  “Why would these Russians kill your friends? Why are they after you?”

  “Somebody has paid them.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody who wants revenge for the death of Mykhayl Drach. Somebody holds me responsible.”

  “You were responsible.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Are you safe where you are?”

  “For a few more hours. Maybe a day. No more. I can’t hide with friends or family. They’d be killed. Can you help me?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Chicago. Will you come to Chicago and help me?”

  “I can’t go to Chicago. It will be someone else.”

  “Who is this other person? How can I trust this person?”

  “You’ll get a call this afternoon. Somebody will ask you where you are. You can trust him. Give him the address where you’re calling from. He will come and get you. He’ll take you to a safe place.”

  “I can’t give my location to a stranger. To some person I don’t know. How do I know he’s not one of the Russians?”

  “He will use a code word. A word only you and he know. When you hear that word, you’ll know you can trust him.”

  There’s a long silence. “Very well. What is the code word?”

  “Ostrog.”

  “Ostrog,” he repeats. “Our famous Montenegro monastery. That is good. The Russians will never think of that. Russians are ignorant fools.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN I HANG up, Lucy comes to my desk.

  “Have you made any progress in the Vickie West investigation?” I ask.

  “I’ve interviewed all the cast and crew,” Lucy tells me. “Two admit to knowing something about firearms: Arthur Cantwell says he’s a skilled shooter and has several high-powered hunting rifles. He says he’s a hunter and shoots things on safari in Africa.”

  “The second?”

  “Tim Collins, another of the actors. I’ve got Mr. Collins in interview room nine right now. I’m about to take his statement. Do you want to join me?”

  Lucy and I meet Collins in one of the nicer interrogation rooms. He’s a slender, good-looking young man with longish blond hair.

  “Your partner said you had some questions.” Collins is not sure which one of us to talk to, shifting his eyes from me to Lucy and back.

  “Where were you at the time Miss West was killed?” Lucy asks Collins, trying to take charge of the conversation.

  “I was backstage waiting to take my curtain call.”

  “Who else did you see backstage?”

  “Michael Tolland, the stage manager. Cynthia Fletcher, she’s Vickie’s agent. And Natalie Esmond. Arthur Cantwell must have been there, but he would have been on stage. And that creepy props girl.”

  “How did you get involved in this production?” Lucy asks.

  “Through a casting agent. I mostly work in television these days. You’ve probably seen me.”

  “What might I have seen you in?” Lucy asks.

  “My first TV gig was a corpse on CSI. I’ve been in dozens of shows since.”

  “You told Detective Tanaka you know about guns,” I say.

  “Not real guns. Pretend guns.”

  “What do you mean ‘pretend’ guns?”

  “For three seasons I appeared on a TV series called The Phantom.”

  “I remember that show,” Lucy exclaims. “I loved it. Which part did you play?”

  “I was Eliot Flynt the most dangerous international assassin in the world, and he used all kinds of special weapons.”

  “You played the part of an international assassin?” I ask, curious, despite myself. “I’m sorry I missed it. Is it still on?”

  “My contract wasn’t renewed at the end of season three. The show’s not worth watching since my character was written out. There were artistic differences between me and the showrunner. He was a douchebag.”

  “I mean, what happened to the character you played,” I ask. “The international assassin?”

  “He was flying over San Francisco in his personal helicopter, planning to kill the king of somewhere or other who’s riding in a cable car on Powell Street. Flynt has some kind of super rocket aimed right at the cable car. The so-called star of the series, Harry Something, who can’t act for shit but earned five times what I got and plays a CIA agent, is standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. He has this pistol and he shoots the assassin’s helicopter so it blows up over Alcatraz Island and crashes in flames into San Francisco Bay. End of Eliot Flynt. End of contract. The show’s been crap since.”

  “You know it’s not possible to shoot down a helicopter with a handgun,” I say.

  “Who cares?”

  “Did you use firearms as part of that show?” Lucy asks, becoming a bit impatient as the questioning drifts off course.

  “Lots of guns. And all kinds of other weapons. All fake, of course. We had a police sergeant on set at all times to be sure the guns were harmless and we didn’t kill each other.”

  “Do you own any real guns?” Lucy asks.

  “I won’t allow guns in my house. I have two small kids at home, and I don’t want them playing with guns. Know what I mean?”

 
“But you know how guns work?” I say. “In your work on that show, you became familiar with various weapons. How they were armed? That sort of thing?”

  “I guess. I used them all. In one episode I was supposed to set off a neutron bomb.”

  “I’m not concerned with neutron bombs today,” I say. “What about more conventional weapons?”

  “You mean like a pearl-handled revolver? Sure, but I’ve never fired a real gun; in fact, I’m afraid of guns.”

  “Very wise,” I say.

  “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Victoria West?” Lucy asks.

  “I have no idea why anyone would want to kill anyone. Unless they’re killing bad actors who get all the good contracts and agents who don’t return phone calls.”

  “Did you get along with other members of the cast?”

  “There were no serious problems; maybe some friction during the rehearsals early on. The former props manager was fired a few days before opening night. Artistic differences, according to rumor. The director found a replacement right away. Cantwell was his usual asshole self.”

  “How was Victoria West during the performance last night?” Lucy asks. “Anything unusual in her behavior?”

  Collins reflects for a moment. “Her performance was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. She’d found Hedda’s anger—her fury. It was kind of scary, actually.”

  “Did anything strike you about what Collins said?” I ask Lucy after Collins leaves.

  Lucy reflects. “He said he was a corpse on CSI. How do they do that? Do they just hold their breath, you think?”

  “He also said the previous props person was fired over artistic differences. How in hell do you have artistic differences over props?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A POLICE OFFICER opens the door to the interview room. “Detective Zorn, there’s a man who says he needs to speak to you. He says he has information in connection with some murder case.”

  “Can you take this?” Lucy asks. “I’m supposed to attend a press conference with the chief on the Victoria West case.”

  The man waiting for me is short with a round face and thinning white hair partially covering a pink scalp; he wears a pale gray shirt, a gray suit, a black bow tie, and loafers with leather tassels. He’s about sixty.

  “Aubrey Sands,” he announces cheerfully with a bright smile. “You must be Detective Marko Zorn.”

  “I must be. I understand you want to speak to us about a murder investigation.”

  “That’s right. The Victoria West case.” He removes a business card from a small, leather holder and gives it to me. The card reads:

  Aubrey Sands, Penny Lane Murders

  This is followed by a telephone number, an email address, and a website address.

  “You’re the lead investigator in the Victoria West murder case?” the man asks.

  “My partner, Detective Tanaka, is now in charge of that investigation. She’s at a news conference right now. How can I help you?”

  “It is I who can help you. I can help you solve the Victoria West murder mystery.”

  “We always welcome the public’s cooperation. Do you have information you would like to share? I can pass it along to my partner.”

  “Not information. Advice. I write mystery novels, you see. Maybe you’re familiar with the Penny Lane murder series.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “These are what are called cozy mysteries. Maybe you’ve heard of The Christmas Pageant Murder or The Carousel Murder.”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “You don’t read mystery novels?” The man seems genuinely astonished.

  “I have enough real crime in my life as is. I don’t need fantasy crime.”

  Maybe mystery fiction is too close to home. I don’t say it though. Sands seems a decent guy who’s only trying to help. I don’t want to be rude by disparaging his profession.

  “You should read mysteries, you know,” Sands is telling me. “You could get a lot of tips on solving crimes.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “I’ve written nine Penny Lane books,” Aubrey Sands says. “The events take place in a small town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see the appeal of fictional murder mysteries.”

  I’m not sure why people read these books. Violent death is a terrible thing. Not just for the victims and families. But for those of us who deal with violent death every day as a profession. We learn to live with it, I guess. What do we lose in learning to do that? Too much, I sometimes think.

  “Think of these mystery books as intellectual puzzles. A brutal crime is committed. Who is the culprit? The author leaves clues. Sometimes they are false and misleading. Sometimes they’re real. It’s kind of a contest between author and reader. Who’s smarter? Who can solve the mystery first?”

  “Who wins that game?” I ask.

  “Usually it’s the author. The character the author creates who seems like the obvious villain turns out to be innocent. And the one the reader least suspects is the criminal. And the reader always gets the motive wrong. It’s never what one thinks; it’s usually something quite different.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “I’ll make a little confession, Detective—as one professional to another—we writers sometimes cheat a little.”

  “So do I. I’ll stick with the Sunday New York Times crossword.”

  “My principal sleuth is Mrs. Peregrine Partridge, the local librarian. Peregrine is a widow and lives alone with her cat.”

  “And she solves your mysteries, I suppose.”

  “She’s very observant, and she solves many murders that confound the local police.”

  “It’s true,” I say, “the police are frequently confounded.”

  “I’m certain I could help solve this murder. All I need is the opportunity to examine the crime scene.”

  “I can’t permit that, Mr. Sands. The crime scene is off-limits to everyone except official police investigators.”

  “My sleuth often visits the crime scenes, and she always finds a clue the police have overlooked. Peregrine must frequently remind Sheriff Rogers—he’s the local constable—don’t look so hard. Look obliquely and you will see more.”

  “And does he?”

  “I’m afraid not. But Peregrine does.”

  “I’ll try to look more obliquely next time.”

  “You haven’t made any progress, have you?”

  “It’s early days.”

  “You see but you do not observe, Detective.”

  “I think I’ve heard that advice before.”

  “I don’t wish to sound disrespectful. I’m sure you and your men are highly competent.”

  “Like the police in your small town,” I say.

  “Exactly. And, like you, they are suspicious of meddling amateurs. But you have a very special problem.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You have a classic ‘locked room’ murder.”

  “I’ve been in this business many years, Mr. Sands,” I say. “And I’ve investigated dozens of murders. I’ve never seen a real ‘locked room’ murder. Never even heard of a real one. They don’t exist; they’re figments of the imagination of crime-story writers. No offense, but they’re only good for entertainment.”

  “But you have one right now. According to the press, Victoria West was alone in a small room when she was killed. There were no windows. The only doors were closed and in view of hundreds of people. At the beginning of the performance there was no one in that room. At the end of the play, somebody shot her. The gun that was used to kill her was found clutched in her hand. Nobody entered that room except the victim; nobody left that room. How was it done, Detective Zorn? How was it done?”

  “My partner will figure it out.”

  “I think you need my help. I’ve written two books involving ‘locked room’ murders: The Harvest Festival Murder and The Case of the Missing Bicyc
le. Read them; they might give you some insight.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sands. I’ll pass along your suggestions to my partner.”

  “You’re not going to let me look at the murder room, are you?” Sands looks disconsolate. “Not even a peek?”

  “Sorry. It’s not possible. But thank you for your offer.”

  “That’s it?” Sands asks.

  I give Sands my business card. “Please call me or Detective Tanaka if you have any real information.”

  He stops and turns back to me. “You are, of course, quite right, Detective. There’s no such thing as a real ‘locked-room’ murder. Not even in genre fiction. The mystery always turns out to be a matter of misdirection.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE TEXT MESSAGE on my phone comes at two in the morning and reads: I have a message for you from Vickie that will explain everything. Meet me at the Capitol Theater stage door at 2:30 a.m. This message is for you alone. Bring no one with you. Oliver will join us. There’s no indication who sent it.

  I am by temperament and experience deeply suspicious and, under normal circumstances, I’d go back to the theater only with armed backup. But this is different; “Oliver” has invited me. I know I have to go. And I must be alone.

  I pick up my rental car I parked a block from my house and drive to the theater. When I arrive, I find the stage door located in an alley alongside the theater. As I get out of my car, I receive a second text message: Stage door unlocked. Come right on in.

  The alley is dark and deserted, but I know somebody is watching me.

  This is really stupid. I know I shouldn’t do this. Walk into a commercial building in the middle of a murder investigation, at night, alone, with no backup. I’d never tolerate such behavior in an officer working under me. So I am extra careful.

  I can’t help myself. Oliver is waiting for me.

  Inside the stage door is a long, brightly lit corridor; the only furniture is a battered, metal folding chair leaning against one wall. Shouldn’t there be a security guard on duty here? Maybe at night they just lock the doors. Just the same, I’m careful.

  My phone vibrates and a new message appears. Very good, Marko. I like punctuality in a man. Go to the end of the hall and look for a door with a sign reading Staff Only.