1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (2 page)

“I know that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Mister Sherlock, I want to see the body.”

“Don’t we all?” I drop the rock.

She follows me up to the sandy path leading to the Augustus property, each step torturous in her six-hundred-dollar Gucci pumps. “Do you have to walk so fast?”

“I get that scent of rotting flesh in my nostrils and I just can’t hold myself back.”

“Really?”

Tiffany does not have an ear for sarcasm.

We come to a strand of yellow, crime scene tape stretched between the pine trees.

This is dumb.

Who in his right mind would ever consider a thin strip of plastic as a deterrent to anyone? The stuff is flimsy, snaps in two easily, and people walk right into it all the time; but for some reason, whenever a crime is discovered, some genius strings it up as if it were an impenetrable force. Hell, if it works, why don’t they put it at the borders to keep out illegal aliens?

I duck under the tape. Tiffany raises it over her head and passes underneath. The difference in our actions speaks volumes.

I raise my hand as if I were the squad leader of the YWCA Indian Guides. “Stop.”

Tiffany looks up the rock-lined path, sees a number of people gathered round. “Why?”

“Get behind me.”

“A little demeaning,” Tiffany says.

“Follow me. Stay close; don’t move off the line I set.”

Tiffany points to the left, up the path a couple hundred yards from where we stand. “I think the body is over there, Mister Sherlock.”

“I doubt if he’s going anywhere.”

I walk perpendicular to the crime scene tape. Tiffany follows. I move slowly, my eyes never rise from the ground directly beneath me. The rocks are lined up like little soldiers, perfect except for one missing. I consider the one found at the sex scene. I debate whether to go back and get it, put it back in place and return the path to perfection. I don’t; too lazy.

“Are we looking for something?” Tiffany asks.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

We reach the end of the yellow tape. I take one step to my right and make a close-order drill turn and start back in the direction I came.

“If you don’t know what you are looking for,” Tiffany says from a foot or two behind me, “How are you going to know when you find it?”

“Trust me; I’ll know.” I continue to pace across the back lawn of the estate.

After two or three more passes, Tiffany grows even more restless. “This is boring.”

“Life is boring,” I tell her. “Days, weeks, months, years of one mundane task after another, punctuated intermittently with disappointment, failed expectations, and negative fates; that’s what life is all about.”

“Not my life.”

“Oh, please, do tell your secret.”

“Shopping, Mister Sherlock, lots of shopping.”

I see a metallic item in the grass, I stop, bend over, reach down to retrieve it, and Tiffany rear-ends me. I catch myself before I hit the ground.

“Sorry about that,” she says, “I didn’t see your brake lights.”

“Don’t worry.” Hardly the first time I’ve been kicked in the ass by a woman, and likely won’t be the last.

The item is worthless. We continue on my switchback path.

“May I remind you, this is boring,” Tiffany says.

“No.”

___

No matter how many cities or episodes of
CSI
end up on TV, no crime scene will ever be as pure as the ones they portray. The second after a crime is committed, the scene is always compromised. The wind blows, rain falls, dust settles, bowels move, blood spurts; or some kid happens by on his bike, stops, and turns the victim over for a closer view. I heard of one instance where two tourists found a body in a downtown alley and preceded to pose for pictures with their discovery. They even asked another tourist to use their camera so all three could be in the picture together. There’s a vacation slide show the neighbors will never forget.

___

As we traipse through the Augustus back forty, we come upon a garden. Walking alongside, I, and hopefully Tiffany who stays close behind, remain careful not to disturb the rocks lining the walkway. Dirt on the path is as smooth as a baby’s bottom and not a bedding plant in the adjacent gardens has been disturbed. If I ever meet the landscaper who did the design on pansies, roses, and phlox, I will certainly give him my compliments.

I stop, think. We are less than twenty-five feet from the actual crime scene.

“What?” Tiffany says impatiently.

I look left, right, up, down, pausing at each as if taking a photo.

“You found something?” Tiffany asks.

“No.”

“Then what? Tiffany pleads, “
T
ell me.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“No, I’m real bad at that.”

“Well, then…”

“Tell me anyway.”

I pause and look down the way at a tarp covering a huge pile, which undoubtedly includes Alvin. “They might have found him here, but that wasn’t where he was killed.”

“How do you know that? You haven’t even seen the body.”

“I don’t know,” I say, “I just do.”

2

Who rocked the stones?

A yellow plastic tarp covers a lump six feet in length, maybe three feet in width, and two high, lying off the path in the middle of a rock garden.

Could there be a greater oxymoron than a rock garden? Rocks don’t grow, change with the seasons or bloom; best they can do is gather moss (unless they’re rolling) and how attractive can that be? There were hundreds of rocks, some piled in pseudo art sculptures, a miniature Stonehenge, a replica of Mount Rushmore, pieces of red shale stacked in a tribute to Bryce Canyon, a rock waterfall, and a babbling brook. Rocks, rocks, and more rocks; totally absurd. There were rocks piled up in a foursquare like cannonballs in the Civil War, and a rock tunnel for the kiddies to crawl through. Boulders, shiny stones, pebbles, quartz, and quarry stones. The most impressive was the ridge of rocks, landscaped straight upward to a height of ten feet, a triangular wall of stone, two feet thick. Problem was: a section of the wall had collapsed.

I’m about ten feet from the covering when Norbert Keaton gets in my face.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Probably a lot more than you.”

“Are you looking for bail business?” Norbert, the great detective, has read the inscription on my shirt.

“No, I’m making a fashion statement.”

Steve Burrell positions himself beside Norbert, making somewhat of an impenetrable wall. Each so-called detective tips the scales at two-twenty-five-plus, with a body fat index well above the fifty percent range. They were known as Tweedledum and Tweedledee when they partnered at the CPD.

“We don’t have to allow you entrance to the crime scene,” Steve informs me.

Dumb comment since both Norbert and Steve watched me arrive, pace across the Augustus property, survey every inch, and pick up scraps along my way.

“Insurance investigator, I have a right to be here.” This they already know, but can’t admit.

“You’re supposed to get a waiver.”

“Listen,” I speak with about as much authority as I can muster. “If it was up to me, this certainly wouldn’t be my first choice for a Saturday night out on the town.”

The two detectives stand, shifting their weight from side to side.

“Just you keep in mind who is in charge,” Steve informs me in no uncertain terms.

“I promise; if anyone asks
‘
who
is the head ramrod of this wagon train?’ I’ll tell ’em it’s you.”

There is a slight pause as I move toward the tarp.

Norbert blocks Tiffany from following me. “Who are you?”

Tiffany’s tongue wets her perfect collagen-filled top lip and answers, “Tiffany, nice to meet you.”

The four of us gather round the mound beneath the plastic tarp. Steve grips the top edge and asks, “Ready?”

Tiffany steps forward for a closer look, a bad idea, because when Steve whips off the tarp, a raft of foul air hits her nostrils like a blast of baby diarrhea. Her head jerks backward, then luckily forward, as she vomits the remains of a latté colored bran muffin.

I allow her to finish before I lend assistance. “You okay?”

“I haven’t done that since going off my purge diet.”

I position her behind me and turn to witness Alvin J. Augustus, or at least what’s left of him.

The victim is a disgusting, gruesome pile of rotting flesh, mostly underneath some very attractive stones. I move around for different angles and see through the rocks that his bones are broken, limbs twisted, and feet point east and west. There is one large rock resting in the indentation of his skull. Charming. Amazing how one rock could find the exact mark.

I usually dislike what I have to do to make a living, but at scenes like this I downright despise the job.

“Coroner been here, yet?”

“He wasn’t too thrilled with it, either,” Steve says.

“Can’t say I blame him.”

“He still around?”

“Said he had dinner reservations and left.”

“Who could eat after this?” Tiffany asks.

“I’m certainly planning on it,” Norbert says.

The stones cover Alvin like autumn leaves. Blood, which has turned a dark, almost brown crimson, has drained from his wounds and down the brick-designed lane, pooling like a puddle after a thunderstorm. Bits of brain, bone, tissue, and other bodily residue lie in the thick liquid. It reminds me of a Cajun etouffé on a bed of white rice; I’ll ask Norbert if that’s what he has in mind for his entrée tonight.

“Accidental death, Sherlock,” Steve says.

I turn to Tiffany, who has recovered from her gastric mishap. “Hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Can I go home, now?”

“No.”

“Why not? The police say it’s accidental
,
” I plead.

“That’s not what Daddy wants to hear, Mister Sherlock.”

Steve waxes poetic, “He’s out taking a Saturday morning stroll, minding his own business, when something happens, like an earthquake
. T
he rocks come off the ridge and crush him like a cockroach under an exterminator’s boot.”

“I didn’t feel any earth moving,” Tiffany says.

“It was a small quake, its epicenter was right here in Alvin’s backyard.” Steve further explains.

“But I didn’t feel anything,” she says, “and I’m very sensitive.”

“You just haven’t found the right man, yet,” I conclude.

Norbert offers an additional treatment to corroborate his partner’s theory. “Or Alvin’s out here, sees a stone out of place, tries to fix it, and the Walls of Jericho come tumbling down.”

“This all sounds really good to me,” I agree with two of the stupidest theories since the world was considered flat or Iraq had weapons of mass destruction.

Tiffany pulls at my sleeve. “Remember, a twelve-million-dollar policy, Mister Sherlock. Daddy will want no stone left unturned.”

“No pun intended.”

“Wrap it up, write it up, and seal it shut,” Norbert says hopefully.

“No,” Tiffany says, “Mister Sherlock doesn’t even think this is where he was killed.”

The two detectives pause to consider her revelation.

“You were certainly right about not being able to keep a secret,” I tell Tiffany.

“So,” Norbert asks Tiffany, “
h
ow does Mister Sherlock arrive at this conclusion?”

“That’s the secret
,
” Tiffany says and smiles to me, looking for a compliment.

“So, come on,” Norbert says.

“I don’t know how I know.
I just know.”

“No shit, Sherlock?” Steve says.

Norbert and Steve are not stupid. They both had the brains to coast through twenty years in the Chicago PD, retire with seventy-percent pensions, and take similar jobs with the Kenilworth department, where the worst crimes are committed by drunken teenagers whose parents have very deep pockets for immediate
“Let’s keep this in the family”
verdicts. The two dicks work nine to five, trade on-call weekends, get eleven paid holidays, three personal and three sick days.

I should be so lucky.

They are also smart enough to know this is definitely a murder and that I will do the bulk of their work if they play their cards right.

“He was dragged here,” I say.