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Authors: Kenneth L. Levinson

Tags: #Mystery, #Murder - Investigation, #writing, #Colorado

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BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
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Cameron grabbed the battered briefcase he had borrowed from Jack Burnsley in the
Crime Lab and set out toward the hotel. Half way there, he glanced back toward his Explorer. A
layer of snow was already beginning to cover the red paint. Ten inches, they said? No way! There
was already that much on the ground. This could be one for the record books.

As he walked, a shudder ran down his lean figure.

A bad omen or just the bitter cold?

Either way, he quickened his pace until he reached the shelter of the Marquis Hotel.

When he reached the conference level, he set down the briefcase and reached into his
pocket for the name tag Rena Oberhaus had given him the night before. He pinned it to his shirt,
taking care not to tear the blue ribbon that officially designated him a
Speaker
.

It took him only a few moments to find her. She was standing near the coat rack, talking
with two men. The older one was dressed in a gaudy green suit and had wavy white hair that,
even from across the room, looked like a hairpiece. As Cameron approached the group, the
stocky man took the older one by the elbow and led him away.

"Good morning," Rena said. "Did you have any trouble getting here?"

"Naw." He had noticed that she never referred to him by name, but as a cop he was used
to that reaction. His presence sometimes made people uncomfortable. He added, "Although I did
have to switch into four wheel drive to keep from sliding around, especially on the side streets.
This is going to be a memorable snow storm."

"Maybe so. It's certainly wreaking havoc on our convention schedule. We've rearranged
a few things, but you're still on for ten o'clock. We'll have to make up the time as we go
along."

"Oh? Do you want me to shorten my talk?"

" Absolutely not," she answered. "They'll want to hear every word you have to say.
Especially the mystery writers. They always love the crime scene presentations. You'll be in the
Elm Room this morning. I'm headed that way myself."

He fell into step as she led the way. When they turned the corner near the Elm Room,
she nearly bumped into a man in a blue Marquis Hotel uniform.

"Hi, Jimmy," she said. "I've been looking for--"

"Yeah, you and everybody else, " he growled.

Rena said, "Apparently, the Aspen Room is still locked up. Would you mind--"

Jimmy gestured wildly in the direction of the Aspen Room. "I unlocked those doors first
thing this morning! Seven o'clock, right on the button. Storm or no storm. Like I just told them
two old coots." He snorted. "One of them practically called me a liar!"

Rena let out a small sigh. "The taller one with the white hair?"

"That's the one." Jimmy laughed. "Is that a piece, or what? How pathetic is that?"

"Mr. Fontaine is a bit, um, eccentric," she allowed, "but--"

"No, he's not." Jimmy snorted. "He's a psycho. An honest to God psycho. Keep him the
hell away from me. And I'm telling you the doors are unlocked." He whirled, turning his back on
Rena, and sauntered away.

Seeing the wounded look on Rena's face, Cameron said just loud enough for Jimmy to
hear, "Someone ought to teach that punk some manners."

Rena glanced sharply in Cameron's direction but said nothing.

He turned and strolled into the Elm Room, giving a friendly nod as he passed the half
dozen people who had already staked out their places among the rows of folding chairs. He
placed the Crime Lab briefcase on the speaker's table at the front of the room and, after testing
the table to make sure it would support his weight, settled in to wait for the rest of his audience to
arrive.

Writers began flooding into the room. Cameron studied them with the detached curiosity
of a trained investigator. Many were barely out of their teens. Others had obviously seen many
winters and were presumably hoping to spice up their retirement years with a career in writing.
Most of the men wore jeans or slacks; a few, especially the older ones, were dressed in business
suits. The women's clothing ranged from jeans and sweatshirts to what Cameron suspected were
some very high-end designer outfits. Meg would know where they came from, he thought.

And how much they cost.

A few of the hopefuls eagerly grabbed seats in the front. Cameron permitted himself an
indulgent smile. He knew from experience that these were the ones who would ask the most
questions. They were also the ones who would rush forward at the end of his presentation to pelt
him with even more questions.

Flamers.

That's what they called them at the Police Academy. People who sat in the front row and
threw their hands up in the air every time the instructor asked a question. Cameron rose and
wandered over to the corner of the room, where he'd left the large display case the night before.
The bottom of the wooden frame bore the legend,
Weapons of Mayhem,
which one of
the guys in the evidence room had dreamed up to make the display seem dark and
mysterious.

With a flick of his wrist, Cameron removed the cloth cover from the display case and
returned to his perch on the speaker's table. The room was nearly full now and he decided it was
time to begin.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I'm Mitch Cameron of the Lakewood Police
Department. I see a few familiar faces from last night's presentation." He gave the audience an
appreciative smile. Gesturing toward the display, he continued, "Today, however, we won't be
talking about deadly weapons, except in passing. This morning's topic is
The A to Z of
Investigating a Murder
."

He took a moment to survey the crowd. "How many of you are mystery writers?" He
estimated that there were fifty people in the audience. Probably forty-five of them raised a hand.
"I assume the rest of you are just curious about criminal investigation? Or maybe you're hoping
to pick up some tips on how to commit the perfect murder?"

Half a dozen people tittered.

"Well, first off, let me tell you there's no such thing as the perfect murder. The only truly
perfect murder is the one that never happens. With our modern scientific techniques, we have an
extremely high success rate, the Ramsey case notwithstanding."

A murmur of uncomfortable laughter rippled through the room.

Cameron waited for the sounds to subside and resumed, "In the real world, the vast
majority of murders are anything but perfect. Most often, they're committed by a family member,
or at least someone who is known to the victim."

Cameron hesitated. He wasn't sure what it was, but something suddenly struck him as
feeling wrong, like that nagging sensation that sometimes woke him in the middle of the night
when he realized he'd forgotten to do something important. He continued, "Much of the time, the
perpetrator--in some locales they call him or her the perp; here, we just call him the suspect--is
under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Or both. That kind of killer is usually caught red-handed.
Since he acts out of impulse or passion, he doesn't worry about whether there are witnesses or
whether he's leaving fingerprints or DNA at the crime scene. Typically, when he's confronted
with the evidence of the crime, he breaks down and confesses."

Someone called out, "Or as soon as he sobers up."

Cameron laughed. "Right. The biggest issue in those cases is figuring out what charges
to bring and what punishment is appropriate for the crime. That decision, of course, is up to the
District Attorney and the courts.

"The next most common murders are the ones that take place in conjunction with
another crime. Things like drug deals, robbery and gang activity. Actual premeditated murders,
the kind most of you are writing about, only account for a very small percentage of all
homicides."

"Okay," he continued, "let's start from square one. We'll assume the dispatcher has
received a call to send an officer to the home of John Doe. The officer arrives on the scene and,
to avoid any of the legalities about procuring a search warrant, we'll assume Officer Smith finds
Mr. Doe lying on the front porch of the house. What is the first thing Officer Smith does?"

A bearded man in the front row raised his hand. "He stakes out the crime scene."

"No," Cameron said, "that's actually not the first thing an officer does. Anyone
else?"

Someone else suggested, "He makes sure the murderer isn't hiding in the house?"

Cameron agreed with a smile, "Well, if he has even a suspicion he might be walking into
danger, he certainly takes the standard precautions. But that's not what I'm getting at.
Anyone?"

"He begins questioning the suspects?" a woman's voice offered tentatively.

"He starts looking for clues," another woman said.

Cameron was distracted for a fraction of a second. That feeling had momentarily
returned, that warning sign that something was wrong. He mentally shook it off and forced his
mind back to his presentation.

"Actually, the first thing Officer Smith does is ascertain whether Mr. Doe is dead. This
may seem obvious, but it's a critical step. The primary objective of any police officer is to save
lives, even if it means contaminating the crime scene. If Mr. Doe is still breathing, then Officer
Smith immediately calls for an ambulance."

He paused long enough to let the point sink in. "Okay, let's assume now that Mr. Doe is
dead. The next thing that happens is that Officer Smith calls for assistance..."

Cameron continued for the next forty minutes. As he spoke, he was increasingly aware
that something in his subconscious was trying to attract his attention. At one point he paused in
mid-sentence because he forgot what he was going to say. For his finale, he opened the Crime
Lab briefcase and began describing the various methods of lifting fingerprints.

Rena Oberhaus had padded quietly into the room and was standing near the door. She
waited for him to finish answering a question and then politely cleared her throat.

Cameron was surprised to see her. "Is it time?"

"It is," she answered with a apologetic smile. "Thank you for taking the time to come
speak to us. Especially on a blustery October day like this. Let's all thank Detective Cameron for
joining us."

The audience applauded politely.

"Thank you," he told them. "I guess that's it."

He watched as Rena left the room. A small queue quickly formed in front of him, with
the scraggly-bearded man at the head of the line. Cameron spent another fifteen minutes
answering questions. Most of the writers had specific issues about stories they were writing and
wanted his help in deciding how their sleuths should react. He patiently talked to all of them until
the last straggler, a cherubic-looking woman who was writing a surprisingly gory thriller, was
finally satisfied.

As she walked out of the room, Cameron plopped down on a corner of the speaker's
table. All in all, it had gone well, he thought. He'd had to fudge on a couple of questions about
fingerprinting, since he hadn't tried to lift any prints in years, but otherwise he was satisfied he
had given his audience the straight scoop.

Still, he couldn't shake that feeling that something was wrong. Something he had
forgotten to do? No, something he had seen that was out of place.

Something that wasn't right.

He shrugged it off and began gathering up his things. Through the row of windows in the
back of the room, he saw that it was still snowing heavily. If anything, the blizzard was getting
worse. He closed the lid of the Crime Lab briefcase with a decisive snap. He'd better get moving
if he wanted to get home any time soon.

Moving to the corner of the room, Cameron flexed his muscles in anticipation of lifting
the
Weapons of Mayhem
display. It made a great prop for speeches, but carting it around
was a giant pain in the neck. Not only was it surprisingly heavy, but it was an odd size. The only
way to carry it was to hug it awkwardly in front of your body. Another problem with the display
was the way things tended to shift around inside. Half the time, one of the weapons fell off its
hook while he was transporting the case. Then he had to unlatch the lid, slide the clear acrylic
sheet out of the way, hang the item back on its hook, and drop the plastic back in place.

Leaning forward to grab the edges of the wooden frame, he noticed that one of the hooks
was empty. No, two of them. He glared at the empty spaces. This time he was really going to do
something about that stupid display case. With all the snow, tonight would be the perfect
opportunity. He'd thought about this before and had figured out a fairly simple hook and eyelet
arrangement that ought to solve the problem. He was fairly sure he had all of the hardware he
needed at home.

He scanned the bottom of the display for the two fallen items.

Then he snapped his fingers.

That's
what had been bothering him. There were two empty slots in the
case.

Two of the
Weapons of Mayhem
were missing.

It only took him a few seconds to figure out which ones were gone. The first was a
stiletto, a steel knife with a vicious nine-inch blade. The other was something a psychotic
teenager had bought over the Internet and then used to strangle his stepfather: a garrotte made of
titanium and blue molded plastic. The thing was designed to be converted into a belt, which
meant you could carry it concealed around your waist. He was sure they'd both been in the
display the night before.

He'd even made his standard joke about the high-tech garrotte being one of the darker
innovations of the twenty-first century.

He took a closer look at the display case.

The lock was missing.

Panic was growing in the pit of his stomach. Whenever weapons were being transported
in a public place, they were required to be secured. That was an absolute rule.

Did I forget to replace the lock the last time I put one of the weapons back?

BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
8.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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