Exercise Is Murder

by Bruce Hammack

  A jagged splinter of wood stuck out of his left eye, looking like a miniature jousting lance. “Don’t move and don’t touch your eye.” Blood trickled down his freshly-shaven face.

  She scrambled to the door and kicked it shut. The 911 call came next. “Shot fired. Pinewood Townhomes, number 604. One person injured. Roll EMS.” She crawled to the curtains and, ever so gently, pulled back a corner while repeating the message and giving other particulars to the operator. Nothing moved outside the townhome.

  She examined Steve for further damage and found none. She moved to a different position. A longer look out the window revealed nothing but empty cars and vacant parking spaces. A ragged hole in the door frame, only inches from where Steve had been standing, gave witness to the seriousness of the event.

  The trip to her bedroom took only seconds. She returned with her .9mm Sig Sauer in hand and squatted beside Steve. “I think someone else isn’t crazy about you being the Logan’s new daddy.”

  Sirens, ever-increasing in volume, approached. Five police cruisers, two unmarked cars, a fire department pumper truck, a second smaller fire department EMS response truck and an ambulance soon lined the parking lot of Steve’s townhome. Skilled hands lifted Steve onto a gurney and off they went amid mechanical wails and staccato lights. Questions from patrolmen preceded similar ones from detectives. Redundant became too weak a word to describe what Heather endured.

  “No, I didn’t see who fired the shot.”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone or a vehicle. But I did hear tires squeal, maybe a hundred yards away.”

  “No, I haven’t seen anyone suspicious hanging around.”

  “Yes, he’s a retired cop.”

  “Yes, he may have people who have a grudge against him.”

  “No, I don’t know who. He was a cop. I was a cop. You’re a cop. We all have people with grudges against us.”

  After an hour and a half she’d had enough. “Look, you’ve searched the house and you’ve checked our weapons to see if they’ve been recently fired. I’m telling you it was definitely a rifle shot. If you want to ask me anything else, I’ll be at the hospital.”

  ◆◆◆

  Heather expected to find a somber scene at the hospital. Instead, she stepped behind the curtain in the emergency room to find Steve and another man nearly doubled over in laughter. A bandage of white gauze, held in place with clear tape, covered Steve’s left eye. He must have smelled her perfume or recognized her footsteps and he burst out laughing again.

  “Heather,” he muttered after he choked down his mirth, “Meet my old partner, Leo Villa. Leo, my new partner, Heather McBlythe.”

  Leo held his side and tried to get up. “Sorry,” he muttered and slumped back down, his face an interesting shade of pinkish-brown and his body convulsing. After gaining control he rose and extended a hearty handshake. “We finally meet, Heather. Sorry about this sounding like frat night at a comedy club, but we got to talking about how stupid it was to try to shoot out the eye of a blind guy.”

  Steve erupted in another guffaw which caused Leo to bray like a mule. She could see the two in her mind’s eye, fifteen years younger. The stakeouts they’d been on, the bond that had formed through shared experiences. Working together day after day had brought them closer than most people imagined possible. Once again they shared the bond that had been welded through time and trials, their reunion taking place in an emergency room, lubricated with gallows humor.

  Heather moved to Steve’s bedside and took his hand in hers. “What did the doc say?”

  In as serious a tone as she had ever heard, Steve said, “The doctor thinks I’ll lose my sight.” Both men erupted again.

  A voice came from behind Heather. “No, Steve’s doctor said you need to take your two-man comedy show someplace else and make room for sick people.”

  A strawberry-blond woman nodded a greeting to Heather along with a wink. “If your name is Heather McBlythe then I understand you’re the agent for these jokesters.”

  “Only one of them. I brought a clean shirt and his leash. Can I take him home?”

  “Please do before people get the idea we don’t inflict pain here. Speaking of pain, I gave him a local before I removed the splinter. Tylenol should be all he needs. Check the eye for the next three days for infection. Otherwise, he’s all yours.”

  The doctor patted Steve on the leg. “Take care, Mr. Smiley. It’s been real.”

  The doctor had no more left the area than Steve said, “Pancakes. We must have stacks of pancakes.” He paused. “And new sunglasses. My old ones seem to have something wrong with one of the lenses. I can’t see anything through it.”

  Again, Steve and Leo roared.

  Relief swept over Heather as she handed a clean shirt to Leo for him to give to Steve. After Leo caught his breath he handed her the bloodied one that had been placed in a plastic bag. She stepped into an open space in time to see Detectives Lowe and Hall whoosh though the emergency room doors. Lowe approached with a scowl while Hall brought up the rear.

  “Detectives,” said Heather with a nod of greeting. “What can I do for you?”

  “We aren’t here to talk to you,” snapped Lowe. “Is Steve Smiley behind that curtain?”

  “He is. He’s with another detective.” She cocked her head. “Aren’t you two a little far from home?”

  “What business is that of yours?” said Lowe.

  Doesn’t this guy know you catch more flies with sugar? “Mr. Smiley is my client and he’s been through a traumatic experience today. He and I have both been thoroughly interrogated. Do you have copies of the reports?”

  “You know those haven’t even been typed up yet.”

  Heather squared her shoulders. “Wait here a moment. I need to confer with my client and the detective interviewing him.”

  She stepped behind the curtain, put an index finger up to her lips so Leo could see not to talk or laugh. She whispered to Steve, “Shhh. I need to get rid of Holmes and Watson.”

  She stepped out and said, “Gentlemen, it will be at least thirty more minutes before Mr. Smiley can speak with you. How about I give you a little money so you can get a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria?”

  “Keep your money. We’ll be back.”

  Heather waited until the duo cleared the emergency room before she said, “The coast is clear. Let’s go get pancakes.”

  The curtain sped around a track in the ceiling. Leo stepped out and scanned the room. “They’re not going to be happy when they find an empty bed.”

  She shrugged. “If Lowe weren’t such a perfect hairball, I’d be nicer to him. Besides, all will be forgiven and forgotten later today.”

  Steve chuckled as he emerged.

  CHAPTER 13

  The gray business suit with tiny, understated maroon pinstripes contrasted against a gleaming, white silk blouse, giving Heather the intended look of breeding, bearing, and success. Ankle-straining high heels lifted her to a height at eye level with most men. She’d applied makeup judiciously and with precision.

  For his part, Steve had followed Heather’s advice, donned the nicest suit in his closet, and covered the gauze bandage with an eyepatch. Not only did the black patch cover the injury, it gave him an air of mystery.

  Heather’s reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator of The Logan Professional Building brought a nod of approval. She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “By the way, Steve, I’ll be moving out next week.”

  “Oh…well…I knew you would sooner or later, but—”

  “I’m buying the adjoining townhome. It’s a mirror image of yours and, as you know, it shares a common wall. The only renovation we’ll need to make is to put a pet door between the two dining rooms so Max can come and go as he pleases.” She paused. Steve might as well have been made of petrified wood. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  “There goes the neighborhood–a Yankee and an overweight cat.” He paused and choked out, “You didn’t have to do that
, but thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  Heather guided Steve into the reception area of the law offices at five thirty-seven p.m., exactly thirty-seven minutes late for the meeting they had scheduled for the reading of the will. Sunny LaForce had Connor so thoroughly occupied he didn’t respond to the door opening. He sat in her secretarial chair with his head leaned back. She dangled a chocolate-covered strawberry over his open mouth, bobbing it up and down like something on a hook, teasing with decadent bait in more ways than one.

  Heather cleared her throat. Connor rose with a tinge of color rising up his neck and issued a meek, “Oh, hello.” The giggles and smile disappeared from Ms. LaForce’s face, replaced with a look of mild shock. This morphed into the solemnity of a nun, not an easy task considering how much of Sunny LaForce she’d put on display.

  Heather took command. “Ms. LaForce, is everyone on the list present?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see you and Mr. Logan have availed yourself of the petite repast Mr. Smiley provided. Has everyone else had the opportunity to partake of the food and beverages?”

  “We sure did,” said Connor. “I wasn’t expecting such a spread. Hey, what happened to you Mr. Smiley? Why the eye patch?”

  Steve touched the covering of his injured eye. “Why don’t we all go into the conference room? That way I’ll only have to tell the story once.”

  Heather’s cell phone signaled a text message. It read: he sang, on our way up.

  As they entered the conference room she whispered to Steve, “The Mounties got their man to talk.”

  Steve nodded to indicate he understood the obtuse message. That’s another thing she’d come to appreciate about Steve Smiley–he didn’t need, or even like, life verbatim. He’d come from the shadowy world of hints and glimpses of incomplete puzzles. Solving people-puzzles made up his stock-in-trade, making one or more face appear from an assemblage of data, deductions, and a certain intangible known in the trade as “gut instinct.” The time of revelation for this puzzle loomed large.

  Heather glanced around the room. Those gathered had not been shy about partaking of either food or beverage. Almost everyone, with the exception of Carey Logan, held a stemmed glass of pinot noir. Brant Speedwell held a sweating bottle of dark ale.

  She took Steve to a spot in front of drawn drapes and settled him in a chair facing the gathering of family and other interested parties. Chairs were placed on either side of Steve and she directed those gathered to arrange themselves so they would be seated, facing the trio.

  “To be of aid to Mr. Smiley,” began Heather, “I’d like Brittany Brown to join us in front. We’ll be discussing legal matters of both a civil and criminal nature. Ms. Brown and I are both attorneys. Mr. Smiley has been named executor of the estate. Between the three of us, we should be able to answer all your questions.”

  Steve spoke up. “For my benefit, I’d like to arrange you in a particular order so I’ll not be confused as to who is speaking. On the front row I’d like Connor Logan, Kate Logan, and then Carey Logan. Seated behind them I’d like Mr. Brant Speedwell and Ms. Sunny La Force.”

  Heather placed her hand on Steve’s arm and whispered, “Lowe and Hall are here, too.”

  Steve announced, “We’ll also be joined by Detectives Lowe and Hall from The Woodlands Police Department. The need for their presence will be made clear as the evening progresses.”

  “Detectives,” said Heather. “I know you’ve had a full day and you must be starving. Please, help yourself to hors d’oeuvres. The evening promises to be lengthy and I dare say you’re both famished.”

  The two looked at each other as if asking permission. Hall pursed his lips and nodded. Lowe needed no additional encouragement. The duo grazed with gusto, especially Lowe.

  Steve listened until all became quiet and then cleared his throat. “When I heard Ned had died while swimming, I suspected foul play. I also determined to do what I could to bring his killer to justice. Through a series of fortuitous events, I’ve been aided in my quest by Ms. Heather McBlythe. She’s a former detective herself, as well as an attorney and a graduate of Princeton with a degree in finance. Ms. McBlythe has been, and continues to be, invaluable. In addition, she must be a very convincing actress. Most of you have met her, either as she appears now, or as Pat Beerhalter, my dowdy aide.”

  Eyes squinted, trying to reconcile the incongruent images of Heather McBlythe and Pat Beerhalter. Heather said, “I apologize for the subterfuge, but everyone in this room was a suspect. As it turned out, each of you, with the exception of Detectives Lowe and Hall, of course, had a motive for killing Ned Logan. Everyone.”

  The repeat of “everyone” brought about narrow-eyed glances of suspicion and looks of astonishment. The attendees scanned each other’s face for any tell-tale signs of guilt. Heather studied the reactions. Things are about to get interesting.

  Steve took over. He turned right. “Brittany Brown, attorney at law. Let’s start with you. By your own lips we learned how years of devoted service at the Logan Law Firm resulted in nothing more tangible than Ned’s word of better days to come. You demonstrated your anger to us in your office. You’d read the will and knew it contained nothing concrete that insured you would ever be recompensed.”

  Brittany huffed, “If you’re saying I had something to do with Ned’s death, you’d better—”

  Steve held up his hands as stop signs, slowed his pace and softened his tone. “You had motive. That’s all I’m saying. What you didn’t have was means or opportunity. You were here at the office, working away faithfully, like you’ve done for years.”

  “Then why all the theatrics?” asked Ms. Brown.

  “I wanted to demonstrate how incriminating motive alone can be. Perhaps I should go through and list the motives of the others one-by-one?”

  A chorus of denials rose from the gathering. Steve held up his hands again. “Quiet, please. I’ll not air your dirty laundry, but every one of you either had something against Ned, or had the potential to benefit from his death.”

  Steve’s voice rang with authority as Heather continued to scan faces. Most turned eyes downward and some of the expressions moved from denial to introspection.

  “The next thing to consider is means,” said Steve. “How was the crime committed? Here is where forensic evidence and other forms of evidence come into play.” He took a long pause. “And this is where Ms. McBlythe and I ruled out each of you as a possible suspect. No one here murdered Ned Logan.”

  Kate Logan spoke the question that lined everyone’s face. “If none of us killed Ned, who did?”

  Steve rose to his feet. “I’ll get to that in a moment. But first, I want to give you a good understanding of how we came to the conclusion that none of you killed Ned Logan. Let’s replay the crime. We know Ned swam every morning in his saltwater exercise pool, a small pool, four feet by nine feet and only four feet deep. The current, generated by a motor, pushed him back as he stroked forward. While he swam, someone deployed a Taser. Stunned and incapacitated with an electric current, Ned drowned. Noticing the two small punctures on Ned’s back, but not realizing their importance, the justice of the peace pronounced that Ned died under questionable circumstances. An estimated time of death was given as ten-thirty a.m., give or take two hours on either side. Therefore, the window of opportunity the police worked on was eight-thirty a.m. until twelve-thirty p.m. That estimated time of death was incorrect.”

  Wide-eyed astonishment swept the room as Steve continued. “We also know, from Ms. LaForce’s statement, that she spoke with Ned at eight-fifteen a.m. I’ve verified through the police that Ms. LaForce did place a call to Ned’s phone at that time. Phone records verify the call lasted thirty seconds.” He raised his chin. “Everyone following so far?”

  Heads nodded. No one asked for further explanation. Steve continued, “I know this is painful for everyone to hear, but I want you to fully understand what really happened and how the estimated time of death is incorrect.”


  The eyes of the two detectives at the back of the room squinted as their focus sharpened.

  Steve continued. “It’s highly unusual for drowning victims to float. Forget what you’ve seen in the movies; bodies don’t bob in a pool, at least not until a significant amount of time has passed. No, the bottom is where Mr. Speedwell should have found Ned and, by a sworn statement, that’s where he was found.”

  Kate pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes.

  Steve had to have heard the muffled sob but carried on. “During our first visit to the Logan home I asked Ms. McBlythe to get a water sample from the pool. We sent it off to a lab for analysis and we have the results with us today. We’ll turn these over to Detectives Lowe and Hall in a few minutes. I should mention that the forensic team of The Woodlands police also took a water sample on the day of Ned’s death. The two samples proved to be almost identical in the salinity of the water.” Steve lowered the volume of his voice a few decibels and the people leaned forward. “The autopsy report showed the salinity of the water in Ned’s lungs to be significantly higher than the other two samples.”

  Eyes shifted back and forth as the gathering tried to come to grips with the importance of the saltiness of the water.

  Steve pressed on. “One other fact needs to be made clear. Mr. Speedwell told police there were no motors running when he found Ned. Police reports confirm the breaker had been tripped. When Mr. Speedwell found Ned, he found him in stagnant water. That led us to two questions. First: Why would the murderer make sure the water didn’t circulate?” Steve allowed the question to settle. “Second, why was the water in the pool less salty than the water in Ned’s lungs?”

  “Why is all this so important?” asked Connor.

  Steve took in a deep breath and continued. “Hang on, Connor. We’re almost there. Let’s try to answer the question of the saltiness of the water first. What could cause the water in the pool to be less salty than the water in Ned’s lungs?” The question again went unanswered so he continued on. “The obvious answer is the addition of water into the pool after Ned’s death. But why would Ned’s killer add water to the pool? That didn’t make sense.”