by Sean Dexter
“Calm down, Ken. We'll work this out whatever it is. Put him on.” I figured Sheriff Boyd would be on the other end of the telephone. I was wrong again. Batting zero was not particularly unusual for me.
“We need to meet,” a man said. His voice was thick with a guttural accent straight out of the good ol' USSR.
“What's this about?” I said, but I thought I probably already knew.
“We need to meet,” the man repeated, only there was an edge to his voice now.
As I mentioned earlier, low level spies during the Cold War were as common as mouse turds in a church. And Dow Chemical was a perfect target. Looks like I had rattled the enemies cage.”And what if I tell you to fuck off?” There was a moment of silence and then I heard Ken scream like a woman.
“He has nine more fingers,” the Russian said. Another scream. “Eight.”
Ken was a good man. He didn't deserve to be tortured. “Okay,” I said. “Where?”
“Good,” the man said. I could hear Ken whimpering in the background. “I think the airport office would do nicely.”
It took me fifteen minutes to reach the airport. I saw the sheriff's cruiser parked off to the side of the terminal building. I reached in to the glove compartment and fished out my .38. I slipped the gun into an ankle holster. It wouldn't survive a thorough search, but it might get by long enough to keep me alive. I coasted my truck up next to the sheriff's.
I climbed out of the truck and knocked on the terminal door. I didn't wait for a response but instead just walked in. The sheriff and a tall, skinny man in a bad black suit stood in one corner. Damned if I didn't recognize him. I should have known. The sheriff had his pistol aimed at Ken, but when he saw me, he stepped forward and gave me a half-assed pat down. He missed my hidden gun.
“Shit,” Boyd said. “We need to know who's feeding you information from inside the plant.” He sidled back over to the other man as if seeking protection.
I looked over at the tall man. “I'd heard you'd defected, Colonel Kabinov,” I said in my native Russian. Kabinov had come to the U.S. as a Russian diplomat a year or so before and had requested political asylum. It had been granted on the condition that he work for the CIA. “You are a coward and a traitor,” I said. My anger at the man had caused me to slip back into my mother tongue. It felt good. I spat at his feet. There's nothing worse than a man who betrays his country.
“Who was your contact in the plant?” the Russian said. He spoke in English.
I couldn't help noticing he used the past tense. This was not going to end well. “Hardly matters now,” I said, also speaking English. “How much are the Americans paying you to betray our country?”
Over in the corner, Ken was following our conversation like it was a tennis match. He looked deeply confused. I didn't blame him. Boyd's gun swung my direction. Ken Tanner launched himself out of his chair. He'd never been much of a thinker. He had no idea who was who in this situation, but he knew who had broken his fingers. He hit both men like a defensive lineman intent on getting to the quarterback. I snatched the .38 from under my pants cuff just as Boyd's gun fired. I heard Ken grunt.
I'd been in fire fights before. Panic is what got you killed. Boyd was still tangled up with Ken, so my first shot was directed at the Russian. I was aiming for his chest but hit him in the throat instead. He dropped his gun and both hands went to his neck like he was trying to strangle himself. From the corner of my eye, I saw Boyd shove Ken to the ground, but I had plenty of time to put a bullet between his eyes.
Except for a few pathetic horizontal dance steps from the Russian, it was over…well almost.
I picked up Kabinov's gun with a handkerchief and placed it back in his hand. I pulled a sheet of paper from my pocket and slid it into the Russian's coat pocket. The paper held a few pieces of information about the chemical plant: hours of operation, employee names, but nothing meaningful. But the few words typed on the paper would go a long way in explaining what happened here. The sheriff's gun was still locked up in his hand. It would have taken a crow bar to pry it out of that dead claw. I smiled. Seems everyone had been carrying a .38. Convenient for me when they tried to match the bullets.
I turned to Ken. He was hurt, but he'd make it. Too bad, I'd always liked him. I walked back over to Kabinov, and with the gun still in his hand, I fired one bullet into the pilot's head. The fear and disbelief was there in his eyes…and then it was gone.
*****
I'd driven home—careful to stay on back streets—cleaned up, and slept for a few hours. At around 8 a.m. that morning, I drove to a phone booth on the outskirts of town and called the Russian embassy in Mexico City. I told my handler everything I'd been able to pry out of Jimmy Lauper about the defoliant being manufactured at Dow Chemical. He seemed grateful. I hoped it would help in my country's effort to stop the spread of U.S. aggression. I drove to my office…just another day.
The headline in the local paper that morning screamed the news:
Russian spy, two others killed
Patriotic sheriff dies a hero
The story went on to say that the Russian had information about Dow Chemical in his possession at the time of his death. Somehow—this part was a little short on details—Sheriff Boyd had learned of the Russian spy's efforts and had confronted him. In the ensuing shootout, Boyd and the Russian had been killed. A local pilot had been caught in the crossfire. A memorial service for Sheriff Boyd would be held the following day. There was even mention of a possible statue in his honor.
And the local paper was right…Sheriff Boyd had died in the service of his country. However misguided the man had been by the constant barrage of U.S. media propaganda, he was still a hero.
I tossed the newspaper into the trash and looked up just as a young woman walked into my office. She was tall and slim and had everything tucked into just the right places under her dress. I could tell she'd been crying.
“Sit, down, Miss.” I gestured at the chair in front of my desk. I waited for her to tell her story, and she did. She was almost certain her husband was cheating on her with one of the bank tellers at Morris Mercantile. I assured her I was most definitely the right man for the job. She seemed to relax while she was writing the check. The tears had dried up.
I reached across my desk for the check and smiled my most reassuring smile. It had been known to melt statues with its warmth.
Hell, even Commie spies have to earn a living.
*****
Former military, process server, private investigator, and teacher, Sean Benjamin Dexter lives in the hills of Colorado with his wife, his sons, a ferocious dog, and the gentle spirit of her predecessor. His books include the historically based Jackson Burke thrillers (Maggie's Drawers and Dark Artist) and the stand alone novel Denial of Duty. More information can be found about Sean at www.sdexter.com.
Drumstick Murder
by
Michael Haskins
Michael Haskins’ Mad Mick Murphy is a reporter, not an official PI. He’s one of those guys though that sure as hell acts like one, so he’s just as perfect to be in this anthology as the more official investigators. Michael has won an award for writing and this story shows why.
Dallas Lucas hadn’t eaten brunch with us earlier, unless you counted the stick of celery in his bloody Mary. Of the people gathered for the breakfast reception for the Key West Songwriters Festival, half those that knew Dallas wish they didn’t. The other half hated him. The handful of songwriters at the reception that didn’t know Dallas didn’t know him on purpose. But that never kept him away from gatherings where drinks were free and there was sure be an up-and-coming songwriter or two eager to meet the legend, specially the pretty ones.
“I’ll be upstairs around ten,” Dallas said to me, as he wandered into the Saloon and went to the bar. “We’ll do the interview there. I’ll give you a half-hour.”
Upstairs was the Saloon’s showroom where some of the festival’s events were to take place. It would be quiet at ten in t
he morning, since the welcoming party usually continued as an afternoon jam session of alcohol-powered songwriters around the outdoor bandstand.
I excused myself from the bar at ten, grabbed my camera bag, and headed upstairs unaware of what waited for me. The loud mixture of music and chatter followed and I stopped on the top landing to look down at the weathered, outdoor bar, the Saloon’s worn-concrete floor, and the celebrating crowd. Clint Bullard and Bob Pierce were laughing and jamming on the small stage, powered by bloody Marys, screwdrivers, and mimosas. Roosters strutted and crowed atop the bar’s tin roof, having climbed one of the large trees covering the patio to escape the crowds.
As I walked in, Kris Kristofferson’s gruff voice thundered like hurricane winds from the multiple speakers in the Saloon’s upstairs showroom, his recorded words vibrating off the walls as he sang about love and loss, pilgrims, Sunday mornings, and traveling with Bobby McGee.
Window light dimly illuminated the room. The A/C was on high, and it was chilly. I saw Dallas sitting by the drum set on the shadowy stage about the same time I noticed the CD unit’s remote control on the bar. I put my camera bag down and lowered the volume.
“Dallas, I need to hear myself think.” I attached the flash to the camera bracket as the music softened. “I appreciate your time. I know you’ve got a lot of things to do before tonight’s show.”
Dallas ignored me. I wondered if my turning down the music upset him. He’s a short-tempered man I know because he’s part of the featured events at the annual Songwriters’ Festival the first of May and each year I grow to dislike him more. But this interview was a paying gig so I smiled and disregarded his mood.
If he wanted to massage his hangover in the cold dimness it was okay, but I needed light to take notes. I stopped at the theatrical lighting panel by the woman’s room and switched on the soft light above the sound mixer. As soon as I stepped to the front of the stage, I knew why Dallas wasn’t talking and it had nothing to do with being upset with me.
Dallas sat on the drummer’s stool, his back against the wall, with a wooden drumstick stabbed into his throat. Blood stained his western shirt and jeans, and dripped onto the stage, while his alcoholic eyes stared into the netherworld, leaving a puzzled expression frozen on his face.
The Nashville songwriters downstairs were dressed in shorts, T-shirts and flip-flops to celebrate the tropics, but Dallas died wearing faded jeans, a western shirt, and boots. All that was lacking were his hat, chewing tobacco stains on his chin, and he would’ve been a cliché.
“What the hell have you gone and done now, Dallas?” I stepped around a puddle of blood at the base of the stool and checked for a pulse that I knew wasn’t going to be there.
This was not the opening-night publicity Charlie Murdock, the event coordinator, wanted for his festival.
I’m Liam Michael Murphy. Years ago, I picked up the moniker Mad Mick Murphy because of stunts I pulled in college and my Boston-Irish heritage, and it stuck. I’m a journalist living in Key West and a weekly newsmagazine hired me to do a feature on Dallas Lucas, a Nashville legend, and a recent winner of his fifth songwriter-of-the-year award.
It was supposed to be an interview about his life, now it would be about his murder.
I expected all hell to break lose before breakfast was digested, when word got out. Most of the people downstairs wouldn’t shed a tear for Dallas, so maybe that made them suspects.
Habit had me shoot a few frames of the body, before I called my friend Key West Police Chief Richard Dowley. Another few minutes wasn’t going to matter to anyone, especially Dallas.
“Jesus, Mick,” Chief moaned after I told him where I was and what I was looking at. “Can’t you go anywhere without bringing trouble?”
“I’m supposed to interview the guy, Chief, not kill him. You want, I’ll walk away and let someone else find him.”
“Lock the door.” I heard him sigh. “Wait there for Sherlock.”
“What about the cops? Should I let them in?” I was being sarcastic.
He disconnected our conversation without a reply. Chief’s call to Sherlock would put the EMTs and cops into the loop quicker than a 911 call.
Sherlock Corcoran is the city’s crime scene investigator and the nickname came with the job. To show his sense of humor, he had a caricature of Sherlock Holmes’ profile painted on the crime scene van. He was not a big fan of journalists and seeing me at a crime scene never made him smile.
Rows of chairs lined up facing the stage and the well-stocked bar was prepared for the sold-out show that was supposed to feature Dallas this evening. I moved to the back of the room and sat in the corner for the window light. I didn’t bother to lock the door because I expected a cop and ambulance to show up quickly.
I took the flash and lens off my camera and put them away. There was no reason for Chief to know I’d taken the photos. Sherlock would shoot more than enough.
“Yeah,” I said to Dallas, “you didn’t commit suicide.”
I scanned the room, wrote what I had witnessed in my notebook, and when I looked down to check my observations, I saw a small pile of wood shavings on the carpet.
I picked up a few of the slivers – light colored wood, thin, uneven like someone had whittled a piece of wood. I jumped up, letting the shavings fall. I was sitting where the killer had sat and whittled the drumstick to a sharp point. I knew it.
I had used the remote and light panel, all things the killer must have used. Damn it, Sherlock would find my fingerprints on things the killer had touched.
I thought of wiping everything down, but knew it would also remove the killer’s prints. My only defense was to tell Sherlock upfront what I touched and hope someone else’s prints were there too.
I put the camera bag back on the bar and went outside to the steps. The morning held promise for the living, with its ocean-blue sky and jasmine-scented breeze, up away from Duval Street. I heard the siren over the partying downstairs and watched the police car turn into the parking lot. Officer Gene Bruehl got out, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, and by then a fringe group of songwriters was paying attention to the flashing lights.
Gene stopped at the door and talked to the Saloon’s door security men. They pointed toward the back of the Saloon, where the stairs were, and the cop pushed his way through the crowd. Half way up, he looked at me and shook his head.
“This the songwriters crowd?” Gene looked down at the group jamming on the stage, their drinks balanced on the railing.
“Yeah. Most of ‘em.”
“You want to do the honors?” He opened the door and motioned me through.
I led him down the short hallway to the main room.
“No lights?” He stopped at the edge of the bar.
“This is how I found the room.”
“Where’s the body?”
He followed me and noticed the dim light over the sound mixer.
“I turned that light on, I needed to see to write,” I said and stepped onto the stage.
Before he could join me, the door opened and we heard people outside. Two paramedics came in. Gene glanced at Dallas’ body and then went down the hall to meet them. He pointed them toward me, and forced a few curious songwriters outside.
While the first responders checked to make sure Dallas was dead, Kristofferson sang about a dying singer being unappreciated and no one caring until she was gone. I doubted anyone downstairs would write a song like that for Dallas.
Sherlock walked in and stopped in the hallway. “Why are we in the dark?”
“I left the room as I found it,” I said, “But I touched the CD remote and stage lighting panel.”
He gave me his suspicious, squinted-eyed look, dropped his crime scene bag in the first row of chairs by the stage, and walked to the body without saying anything.
“He hasn’t been dead long.” Sherlock walked off the stage. “Who is he?”
“Dallas Lucas, one of the headliners of the songwriters’ event.”
I sat down next to his crime scene bag.
“Not a nobody?” Sherlock moaned, shook his head, and took a camera out of his bag.
The paramedics had their gurney ready.
“Thought he was king of Nashville,” I said.
“I had tickets for his show tomorrow,” said one of the paramedics.
Detectives Donny Barroso and Alfredo Vargas came into the room.
“We gonna turn the lights on?” Donny yelled.
“Turn the lights on, Mick.” Sherlock shot photos of the stage and then moved in for close ups of Dallas. He walked back to his bag.
I went to the cooler unit behind the bar and used my elbow to throw the light switch. One less of my fingerprints for Sherlock to question me about later.
“You watch too much TV.” Donny laughed.
Sherlock jumped back onto the lip of the stage as the lights came on. “Jesus,” he said and all eyes turned toward him. “Don’t anyone move,” he shouted and looked around the floor.
Blood stained the carpet, leaving a trail from the bar to the stage. Sherlock followed the stains and bloody footprints to the bar, checking to see if there was blood spatter in the seating.
“Donny, anything in the hallway?”
Donny walked carefully toward the tiled hallway. He checked the floor and the walls. “Nothing here,” he called back.
Sherlock stooped down and touched one of the stains. “Blood,” he said. “Fresh blood.” He stood and checked his wristwatch. “What time did you find him?”
“A couple of minutes after ten,” I said.
Sherlock looked concerned and nodded toward the two detectives. “Why don’t you sit in back and tell your story to Donny and Alfredo.” He turned his back to me, searched through his crime scene bag, and then talked with the detectives.
I walked to the last row of chairs, making sure I didn’t step in the blood and waited for the questioning to begin.