Exercise Is Murder

by Bruce Hammack

  Exercise Is Murder

  A Smiley and McBlythe Mystery

  Bruce Hammack

  Other books

  by Bruce Hammack

  The Smiley and McBlythe Mystery Series

  Exercise Is Murder

  The Long Fall

  Exercise Is Murder

  Text copyright © 2019 Bruce Hammack

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Jubilee Publishing, LLC

  ISBN 978-0-9884408-4-5

  Cover design: Brian Haferkamp

  Editor: Teresa Lynn, Tranquility Press

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  CHAPTER 1

  Three firm knocks sounded on the classroom door.

  “Enter.” The command came from the instructor.

  Heather McBlythe looked up from her desk at Houston’s Police Academy, a sprawling complex spread over seventy acres, butting up to the southwest corner of George Bush International Airport. She found the location of the airport to be a noisy aggravation at first, but decided it was a good setting for learning to deal with frequent interruptions and the resulting stress.

  A loud creak from a squeaking hinge interrupted the chatter of the room’s occupants. Into the classroom walked a disheveled man, feeling his way with a white cane. The sweeping motions, like the slow wag of a dog’s tail, came with a light tap and scrape. He stopped briefly as the instructor announced, “This is retired homicide detective Steve Smiley. You can see on your syllabus that he’ll be teaching SKILLS OF OBSERVATION AND DEDUCTION. They’re all yours, Steve.”

  Who could imagine that a blind former cop would be teaching at the Academy, let alone a class dealing with observation? A snicker came from the back of the room. Instead of speaking, the retired detective adjusted his sunglasses and used his cane to orient himself to the room. He felt his way around the front without speaking, his steps slow and balking. Most of the recruits sat in silence, watching the man shuffle until he had explored the front of the classroom. A muffled conversation rose from the rear of the room. When the former detective came to the wall nearest Heather, he turned and followed it until she felt the cane touch her foot.

  “What’s your name, young lady?” Smiley asked.

  She rose to her feet. “Heather McBlythe, sir.”

  “Thank you, McBlythe. Please be seated.”

  The cane scraped the vinyl composition tile floor in back-and-forth searches as he made his way along the first row of seats toward the door of the classroom. Along the way he slowed as the metal tip, the approximate size of two nickels glued together, came in contact with one foot after another. At the last row before reaching the door he turned and shuffled down an aisle until he reached the rear wall. He backtracked and turned to the occupant in the last seat.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Hank Strother…Hank Strother, sir.”

  “Don’t bother standing, Hank.”

  Some of her classmates stifled a laugh while others straightened their posture. Heather covered a grin with her hand. She’d heard enough in the last few days from the yokel in the back row. He needed to be thrown back to whatever backwater he came from.

  The mysterious former detective traversed his way back to the front of the classroom. Once there he pointed down the center aisle. “Fourth seat. What’s your name?”

  “Mary Bannon, sir,” she said after she had risen to her feet.

  “Tell me, Bannon, what do you know about the death of former District Attorney Ned Logan?”

  “Uh…nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing? You haven’t heard about it on TV or read about it? Are you telling me a former assistant district attorney is dead and you and your fellow recruits haven’t been discussing it?”

  She spoke in a weak, warbling voice. “Well, yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I overheard some of—”

  “So you do know something about it. Is that what you’re saying? Why didn’t you tell me the truth the first time I asked you?”

  The serrated edge of his words cut through the air and left Mary Bannon a stuttering mess. Heather tilted her head. There was more to the curmudgeon than she’d originally thought. Time to pay attention.

  “I…I thought you meant…”

  “Meant what, Bannon?”

  She tried to speak, but whatever it was didn’t rise to the surface.

  “Sit down.”

  A low rumble of bodies rose as recruits shifted in their seats and sat erect. The former detective brought silence by speaking in a voice that demanded to be heard. “First lesson of the day. Most people know something about important events even if it’s pure hearsay. It’s your job to push through their desire not to reveal what they know. You determine what’s important, not them.”

  Heather jotted a quick line in her notebook. Steve Smiley continued, “One more. The man behind Recruit Heather McBlythe. Stand up.”

  The chair behind her scraped. “Sir, Troy Franks, sir.”

  “Front and center, Franks.”

  Troy Franks drew to within a few feet of the man who commanded a bigger presence than his five-foot-ten-inch frame portrayed. Without asking, the former detective reached out and found Troy Franks’ shoulder. His fingers slid down to Franks’ hand and then retraced the path back to the shoulder. He didn’t stop. He felt Franks’ neck, ran fingers along the crown of his head and did the same to his face.

  When he had withdrawn his hand, Smiley announced, “Six foot two inches, approximately one hundred ninety-five pounds, Caucasian male, age twenty-five, scars over both eyes. Prior military. Most likely Army Special Forces. Bandage on shoulder indicates a recent tattoo or, more probable, the modification or removal of a tattoo. I suspect recently divorced, or in the process. No wedding band. The tattoo might be a woman’s name. I also noticed he’s sitting directly behind Heather McBlythe.”

  Smiley issued a wide grin. “Someone put the clues together for me. Is Franks interested in getting to know Heather McBlythe much better?”

  A chorus of affirmative answers erupted.

  Steve Smiley patted Franks on the shoulder. “Well? How’d I do, Franks?”

  “A little too good, sir. Thanks for ruining my chances.”

  “I saved you time and aggravation. She’s not interested in you.” Without turning his head he barked, “Are you, McBlythe?”

  “Negative, sir.” Heather cocked her head to one side. How did he know that?

  “Have a seat, Franks. Okay, everyone, take out your notebooks and pens. Turn your chairs around and face the back wall.” He waited until the noise died down before further instructions. “You have fifteen minutes to write down every observation and deduction you made of me. Whatever you do, don’t turn around.” He paused. “I’ll know if you do.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Heather worked until Smiley said, “Time’s up. Turn around.”

  Papers and chairs rustled.

  “Look at your list and count how many things you observed about me by using sight. Write an ‘S’ at the top of the page and put the number.”

  He waited until the sound of pen to paper had ceased. “You should have at least twenty things recorded from sight alone. Less than twenty means you failed this exercise and you need to be more observant. A good habit to develop is start at the top of a person,
their hair or the hat they’re wearing, then work your way to the shoes or lack thereof. When I had my sight, I trained my mind to recall a minimum of forty distinct observations of every person I questioned.” He lifted his chin and asked, “Did anyone get forty?”

  Silence.

  “Thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-seven,” said Heather.

  “Not bad, McBlythe.”

  A mumbled “showoff” came from the back of the room.

  Heather ignored the critic. Guys like him didn’t last long.

  Smiley continued, “Now add up every other characteristic you wrote down from sound, smell, taste, or touch. Put an OS at the top of your page for Other Senses and tally them up.”

  It didn’t take long for nervous whispers to rise. “Did anyone have more Other Senses than they had Sight?”

  No one responded.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. Sight will be your number one asset. But, don’t neglect your other senses.

  “What you have so far are observations. I also asked you to make deductions about me based on those observations. My using a white cane is an observation. ‘Steve Smiley is blind,’ is a deduction you made from that observation. Write down the number of deductions you made about me.”

  It didn’t take long before he asked, “Did anyone have more than seven things?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Heather.

  “Anyone else?”

  Silence.

  “That’s very good, McBlythe. Tell the class what you know about me based on your observations.”

  Heather took in a deep breath and began. “You’re wearing a college class ring. At your age, which I judge to be just shy of fifty, I deduce you are a very proud graduate of your alma mater. Next, you’re a dog owner. By the length and color of the hair on your pants, I’d say a golden retriever. You’re very thrifty. I gauged this by the worn condition of your shoes, pants, and sport coat. Also, you needed a haircut two weeks ago. I didn’t notice the smell of any cologne or aftershave, but I did notice a small amount of blood on your collar.”

  “And what did that tell you about me?”

  “Two things. Your loss of vision occurred later in life and you’re not fond of change. An electric razor would be more practical for you.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Your presence here tells me you miss being on the force.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Your bearing is a little too slouchy to indicate a military background. You wear a wedding band, but your socks don’t match. That, and the need of a haircut, tell me you’re most likely a widower and you live alone. You have no desire for a new relationship and wear the ring as a guard against advances.”

  “Keep going. You’re doing pretty good so far.”

  “There was one thing I found odd. You asked Recruit Bannon what she knew of the death of Ned Logan. That death hasn’t been ruled a homicide yet. The lead story this morning was the murder of a cab driver. It received quite a bit of press coverage. The question I asked myself is why did you choose to question Ms. Bannon about the death of Ned Logan and not the cab driver?”

  “And your deduction?” asked Steve.

  Heather shrugged. “The death of Ned Logan is of particular interest to you.”

  “Excellent,” said Steve. “Ned Logan was my college roommate. Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir, but I think it best if I tell you in private.”

  “We all have our secrets, don’t we, Ms. McBlythe? Very well. I’ll see you after class.”

  He raised his voice. “Everything McBlythe said is accurate with the exception of my current ownership of a dog. He died five months ago. I haven’t worn these slacks in nine months. Thus, Beauregard’s hair remains on my trousers.”

  A voice piped up from the rear of the classroom. “What did you deduce from asking me my name?”

  “Ahh, Hank Strother. I’ll get to you in a few minutes. First, let me chat with Mary Bannon.” He shifted to where he faced her. “Bannon, all it took was one sharp question and you turned to jelly. A series of quasi-accusations and I had you near tears. Here’s what I deduced from our short conversation, Ms. Bannon. You have a fifty-fifty chance of graduation from this academy. Your chances of making it on the streets for more than a year are lower.”

  The room became graveyard quiet. Heather looked at the quivering jaw of the recruit. Here it comes.

  “You have two choices, Mary Bannon: grow a backbone or find another line of work.”

  Pow. He nailed her.

  A voice came from the back of the room. “You can’t know that from one short conversation.”

  “Strother,” said Smiley, his voice salted lightly with derision. “I thought I might hear back from you. I’m glad to see you’re paying attention considering what you did last night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I passed your desk three strong odors assaulted me. The first, cologne. Old Spice, liberally applied. Breath mints came next, followed by last night’s consumption of alcohol seeping through your skin. The Astros played last night. You spent an evening swilling beer at the ball park. Am I right?”

  “I only had two beers.”

  Heather shook her head. Wrong answer, Bozo.

  “Don’t test my patience,” snapped Smiley. “That ‘two beers’ fairytale won’t cut it.”

  “You can’t know where I was or how much I drank last night,” challenged Strother.

  Smiley raised his chin a little as his next words spilled out. Heather knew the signs. The red flag had been waved in front of the bull and it didn’t matter that the bull couldn’t see it.

  “Strother, you have a voice like a megaphone and a mouth that needs a zipper. You were talking to the young man beside you about last night’s game when I pretended to grope my way around the room. My suspicions of an alcohol-addled mind were further confirmed when you failed to stand before you gave your name and to address me as ‘sir.’ Add to that, you snickered when you heard a blind man was going to be teaching on observation skills. You mumbled a disparaging remark when Ms. McBlythe showed you up with the number of observations she’d recorded. You are not only a drunk, you’re a belligerent and dangerous drunk.”

  “I still say you can’t know where I was or what I was doing last night.”

  Steve lifted his hands upward in a sign of frustration. “You already stand convicted by your own words. Do you need more proof? All right. I’ll be glad to give it to you.”

  “How?”

  “The testimony of an eyewitness.” Without waiting for a response, Smiley pointed with an outstretched finger. “The young man sitting in the last chair next to Strother, come up here.”

  A murmur of muffled voices rose and fell.

  “Tommy Fletcher, sir.”

  “Tommy,” began Smiley in a soft, fatherly voice. “You’ve been whispering back and forth with Hank since I arrived. You two are pretty good friends, aren’t you?”

  “Uh…good enough, sir.”

  He’s baiting the trap.

  “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. I warn you now not to lie or be evasive.” He motioned with a tilt of his head. “Sergeant Holland is standing by the door, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s listening to every word we say, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lying to an instructor is cause for immediate dismissal, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’s got a nibble.

  “You went to the ball park last night, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You went with Hank, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You drank beer, didn’t you?”

  “Half a beer, sir. It got too warm for me.”

  “Hank drank the rest of it, didn’t he?”

  “Well…”

  The voice of the instructor broke in with enough force to cause half the class to jump. “Tell him!”

/>   Watch out, fishy.

  “Yes, sir. Hank drank the rest of it.”

  “He got up every inning and bought a fresh beer, didn’t he?”

  “No, sir. He bought two at a time from the vendors who came down the aisle.”

  The hook is set. Now reel him in.

  “My mistake,” said Smiley. “One more question. Did Hank drive last night?”

  The brief hesitation gave Heather the clue she needed to know the fate of Hank Strother. The delayed response mingled regret with conviction. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. Have a seat.”

  The voice of the instructor came next. “Strother. Grab everything you brought to class and go to my office.”

  Fish landed, gutted, and filleted.

  Heather looked on as the door closed with more force than necessary. Steve pointed again to Mary Bannon. “Bannon, was I too hard on Strother?”

  “No, sir.” The voice had more substance to it than her previous responses.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her words rang with conviction.

  “Explain yourself.”

  “He’s an alcoholic. He had at least seven and a half beers in a two-hour period. They stop serving in the seventh inning to cut down on drunk drivers. He was drunk when he drove home.”

  “You don’t sound very sympathetic.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Congratulations, Ms. Bannon. Your chances of graduating and becoming a good cop are up forty percent.”

  His voice rose to address the entire class. “Train all your senses, not just sight. Ask questions, lots of them. Get over being shy about making people uncomfortable if you want to be a cop. This concludes my presentation.”

  Steve received accolades as recruits filed past on their way to lunch. The door shut and only Heather remained.

  “Ah, Heather McBlythe, you didn’t run out on me.”

  “No, sir. That was an impressive presentation.”

  The compliment passed with a simple nod. “Miss Bannon needed to find her backbone while Mr. Strother didn’t belong.” He paused. “You had something for me you didn’t want to share with the class. What is it?”