You Have the Right to Remain Puzzled (14 page)

T
HE MOTEL PARKING
lot had never been so full, with the police cars, the medical examiner’s car, and the ambulance. Chief Harper wasn’t about to park on the road. He pulled into the last available space, blocking the ambulance, and got out.

Officers Sam Brogan and Dan Finley were there to meet him.

“What have we got, boys?”

Sam popped his gum. “Male, Caucasian, thirty-five to forty-five, black hair, blue eyes—”

Harper had no patience for it. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’re not on TV, Sam. What the hell happened?”

Dan Finley chimed in. “Someone popped Benny Southstreet.”

Harper sighed. “If we could hit a happy median.”

Sam frowned. “Huh?”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“The occupant of Unit 12 is dead. The chambermaid went in to make up the room, found him in the bathtub. The doc’s in with him now.”

“Any sign of a weapon?”

“There was a gun on the floor. I photographed it and bagged it.”

“Was he shot?”

Sam shrugged. “Ask the doc. I didn’t see a bullet hole. But there’s blood under his head.”

“If he was shot, any chance it was self-inflicted?”

“I don’t know. But if I ever climb into the tub and shoot myself, I promise I’ll leave a note.”

“And there wasn’t?”

“Not as such.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“There was a crossword puzzle.” Dan Finley seemed proud of the announcement.

Harper groaned. “Tell me there wasn’t.”

“Yeah, there was,” Sam said. “Right under the gun. I bagged it too.”

“In the same bag?”

“No. Separate bags. Was that wasteful? Should I have been more thrifty?”

Harper ignored the sarcasm. “You dust the place for prints?”

“I will when the doc gets done leaving his.”

“Now, Sam, Barney Nathan’s a pro.”

“Yeah, sure. I got his prints on file for elimination, all the same.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Chambermaid who found him.” Sam jerked his thumb.

Harper looked, saw a young woman in front of the motel office being comforted by an elderly couple.

“That’s the owners of the place,” Sam said. “They don’t know squat and the chambermaid’s hysterical. Wanna talk to her?”

“Guess I better.” Harper walked over. “Hi there. You the owners?”

The man looked close to ninety, with lonesome wisps of hair, and sagging skin that hung as loose as his flannel shirt and fishing vest. “That’s right.”

His wife, just as thin but hard as nails, jumped in. “How long you gonna tie up the parking lot? Guests can’t get in and out, and no one’s gonna rent a room.”

“One of your guests is dead, ma’am.”

“Well, I didn’t do it,” the woman groused. “It’s not our fault, either, but whaddya wanna bet some damn shyster decides to sue?”

“That’s out of my hands, ma’am.” Harper turned to the chambermaid. “You’re the one who found him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s gotta be a shock. You feel up to talking about it?”

Marge had recovered some of her composure. Still, she had been dreading the questions. “I guess so.”

“How’d you come to find him?”

“I was doing my job. Cleaning the rooms. I got to his. I didn’t know whether he was there. The car was out front, but there was no
DO NOT DISTURB
sign. So I knocked.”

“And?” the Chief prompted.

“And the door was open. Just an inch or two, but definitely unlocked. I pushed it farther open, called, ‘Housekeeping.’ ” She stole a look at the elderly owners, as if not wanting to say the wrong thing in front of
them. “Which is what I’m supposed to do. The guests shouldn’t be disturbed, but the rooms have to be cleaned.”

“I understand. What did you do?”

“No one seemed to be there, so I went in.”

“What did you find?”

“The first thing I saw was the bed was made. Hadn’t been slept in. Just the way I left it yesterday.”

“Could it have been slept in and made?”

“It could, but I don’t think so. The bed was made perfectly, the way a chambermaid would make it, with the top sheet folded over and the blankets tucked in. A guest wouldn’t bother.”

“You thought the guest never came home?”

“At least never slept there. That was my first thought. The bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“So you didn’t have to make up the room.”

“Right. I just had to check if he needed new towels. I went in the bathroom and there he was.”

“Must have been a shock. Did you have any idea who might have done this?”

“Not at all.”

“You work here every day?”

“Five days a week.”

“Anyone ever visit him? As far as you know. He ever have company in his room?”

Marge chose her words carefully. “As far as I know, he never let anyone into his room.”

Harper wasn’t happy with that answer. He was sure the girl wasn’t lying, but still. Why had she hesitated?

Before Chief Harper could frame another question the Channel 8 News van came screeching up, and on-camera reporter Rick Reed, young, handsome, and
bright as your average fireplug, emerged, followed by a camera crew.

“Chief Harper,” he cried. “What have we got here? Wait. Don’t tell me. Hang on a minute.” Rick squared his shoulders, faced the camera. “This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News, live, at the Four Seasons Motel, where a grisly find in one of the units hints of a potential tragedy.” Rick paused for a second, to see if that made any sense. Wasn’t sure. He plunged ahead. “Chief Harper, what can you tell us? Do we have a homicide here?”

“It’s too soon to say.”

“Yes, but is it true someone has been killed?”

“We don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

“Of course not. You were talking to that young woman. Is she a witness?”

“She’s an employee.” Eager to deflect the news team from the chambermaid, Chief Harper led Rick Reed in the direction of the unit. “A man was discovered dead in Unit 12. The doctor is examining the body now to see if there is any sign of foul play.”

“What is the chance that there was?”

Chief Harper smiled. “Well, there’s three police cars here. You do the math.”

Rick Reed lowered the microphone impatiently. “I can’t use a remark like that on the air.”

“I thought you were live.”

“We’re live on tape.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I was live when I said it.”

Harper smiled. “Were you really?”

The soundman was waving frantically for Rick’s attention. “We
are
live,” he hissed.

“What?”

“We’re
live
!”

“That’s right,” Rick Reed said, picking up the cue. “We are coming to you, live, from the scene of a tragedy. The discovery of a dead body in Unit 12 of the Four Seasons Motel. Wait! I think I see the medical examiner now.”

Barney Nathan came out of Unit 12, as usual in his trademark red bow tie.

Rick Reed stepped forward eagerly. “This is Rick Reed, Channel 8 News, bringing you a live, exclusive interview with Dr. Barney Nathan.”

Chief Harper grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and marched him aside.

“Just as soon as he’s talked to the chief of police,” Rick finished lamely. He brightened immediately as the Emergency Medical Team bumped a gurney out of the motel room door. “Hang on! They’re bringing out the body now!”

While the news crew shot the departure of the corpse, Chief Harper conferred with the doctor.

“Okay, Barney, what have you got?”

“He was killed sometime yesterday.”

“Killed?”

“Murder or suicide. But it’s a violent death.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Bullet wound in the head just above the hairline. Whether it’s self-inflicted is your call.”

“Could it have been?”

“It could
have.”

“Do you think it was?”

Barney tugged at his bow tie. “I couldn’t give you a medical opinion on that.”

“How about a nonmedical opinion?”

“A guy fully dressed climbs into a bathtub and shoots himself? What’s the point?”

“You could say that about any suicide.”

“I mean climbing into the bathtub. A man about to shoot himself isn’t concerned with getting blood on the carpet.”

“Did he?”

“Get blood on the carpet?” Barney shook his head. “Not at all. Not a lot of blood in the bathtub, either.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Guy didn’t bleed much.” At Harper’s look, the doctor shrugged. “It happens.”

“Could he have been shot through a pillow or a towel that soaked up the blood?”

“Not in this case. You got powder burns around the wound. Of course, if you didn’t, it couldn’t be suicide, it would have to be murder.”

“Anything else? That would indicate it
wasn’t
suicide?”

“Wound’s in the
back
of the head, not the temple. You could do it, but it would be awkward. And the gun would wind up in the bathtub, not on the floor.”

The ambulance doors slammed.

Barney Nathan glanced in that direction, said, “Well, gotta go do my autopsy. I suppose you want the bullet.”

“Try not to scratch it any more than you have to.”

“You mean I shouldn’t dig it out with a butter knife? Thanks for the tip.”

“And avoid Rick Reed if you can.”

“My pleasure.”

When the news crew descended on the doctor, he smiled and kept going. Undaunted, Rick Reed pounced on the chief. “I’m here with Chief Dale Harper, who
just finished with the medical examiner. Anything to report, Chief?”

“The doctor is accompanying the body to the morgue to perform an autopsy.”

“Autopsy? Then it
was
a murder?”

“That’s what the autopsy will determine.”

“Well, what did the doctor say?”

A blast from the ambulance siren drowned out any possible answer.

Chief Harper looked, said, “Oh, hell, I’m blocking the ambulance,” and went to move his car. He took advantage of the camera crew filming the departure of the corpse to sneak back to the crime scene.

Dan Finley popped out of the motel room door. “The place is lousy with prints.”

Chief Harper groaned. “You auditioning for a cop show, Dan? Don’t tell me about it, just dust ’em and lift ’em.”

“There’s an awful lot of ’em.”

“So I gather. Just get on with it.”

“There’s prints on the gun.”

Harper’s eyes widened. “You lifted prints from the gun?”

“Three beauties. We’ll be able to get a match.”

Harper pulled Dan aside and lowered his voice. “You label the prints from the gun?”

“Of course.”

“Well, double-check ’em. Some smart defense attorney’s gonna claim they jumped around.”

Dan smiled. “Who’s doing the tough-guy lingo now, Chief?”

“Take the gun and the prints and run them down to the lab. I want a ballistics report, and I mean now.”

“I gotta get the bullet from the doc.”

“Pick it up on your way.”

“What about the crime scene?”

“Sam can finish up. You get on down to the lab.”

“Right.” Dan Finley gathered up the evidence, hopped in his police car, and took off.

Watching Dan go, Chief Harper felt a tremendous rush of adrenaline. He had to compose himself, put on his best poker face before walking past the TV crews. It wasn’t easy.

Finding prints on the murder weapon was an incredible break.

Now if he could just match ’em up.

M
R.
W
ILBUR PARKED
out on the road, strode through the parking lot, and glared at the crime-scene ribbon across the door to Unit 12 as if it were an inconvenience placed there primarily to tick him off.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded of no one in particular.

Chief Harper tore himself away from the unrewarding task of interrogating the other motel guests to intercept him. Otherwise the cranky antiques dealer might have ducked under the ribbon and gone in.

“What do you want, Wilbur?”

“I want to see Benny Southstreet. What’s the matter? He under arrest?”

“He’s dead.”

Wilbur considered. “In that case, I
don’t
want to see him.”

“What’s your business with Benny Southstreet?”

“That’s between me and him.”

“Not anymore.”

“Good point. Okay, I was hoping he could get my chairs back, seeing as how you weren’t doing squat.”

“What made you think he could do that?”

“He said so.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“You saw him yesterday?”

“No, on the phone.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he had some chairs I might be interested in.”

“Were you?”

“If they were my chairs? What do
you
think?”

“Were they?”

“How the hell should I know? I figured I’d check it out.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t there. He said he’d be here at two o’clock. I called the number, he didn’t answer. I drove by, knocked on the door. He wasn’t there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. I waited around, in case he was in the can, knocked loud. He wasn’t there. You say he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“So what about the chairs?”

“What chairs?”

“Have you heard a word I said? The guy had chairs. If he’s dead it’s a damn shame, but where are they?”

Harper frowned. “Wait a minute. You’re saying Benny Southstreet had chairs in his motel room?”

“Or his car. Why am I telling you? Did you find his chairs or not?”

“Not in his motel room.”

“How about his car?”

“Which one’s his car?”

“You’re asking me?” Wilbur shook his head. “Sheesh, you got any plans to solve this thing?”

The zapper on the keys found in Benny Southstreet’s pocket flashed the lights and unlocked the doors of the Ford Taurus. The chairs weren’t in it.

“There you are,” Wilbur declared. “The killer took the chairs.”

Rick Reed, close enough to overhear, chimed in, “Chairs? What chairs?”

“Oh, hell.” Chief Harper dragged Wilbur away from the reporter. “If you want to spout a lotta nonsense, I suggest you don’t do it in front of the TV camera. You don’t know this guy ever had any chairs. You don’t know chairs have anything to do with it. But we have a violent death, and if it turns out to be a murder, your interest in your damn chairs is going to make you a suspect in the eyes of the public.”

“Oh, sure. Like people will really think I did it.”

“Someone did. Why not you?” Harper said bluntly. “Now shut up about the chairs until we find out if they ever existed. Will you do that?”

“I don’t see how I can refuse, considering how much progress you’re making.”

Chief Harper walked over to where the chambermaid was hanging out with the rest of the motel help. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

Marge seemed concerned. “I told you all I know.”

Harper smiled. “Humor me.”

He led her away from the others.

“What do you want now?” Marge asked.

“Tell me about the chairs.”

Marge stopped, and her mouth fell open. “What about them?”

“You didn’t mention the chairs. I was wondering why not.”

“I don’t understand. What’s important about the chairs?”

“I don’t know, but I mean to find out. What do you know about them?”

“Nothing. The guy had four chairs. I don’t know why. I had to clean around them.”

“Where are they now?”

“I have no idea.”

“You knew they were gone?”

“Well, I didn’t see them.”

“You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“Are you kidding? The man is dead. Who cares about some stupid old chairs?”

“That remains to be seen. The point is, it’s not up to you to evaluate the evidence and decide what is important enough to tell us. You think of anything, you let us know.”

“Okay.”

“Is anything else missing? Anything you noticed before that you don’t see now?”

“No, that’s it.”

“The last time you saw the chairs was when you cleaned yesterday? You have no idea where they went? Or when?”

“No.”

“You had no idea they were missing until you went in there just before you called the police?”

“No, I didn’t. You mean he was killed for his chairs? But that’s ridiculous.”

“Why is it ridiculous?”

“It just is. I mean, I can imagine someone stealing the chairs. I can’t imagine someone killing someone over them.”

“And you have no idea who might have taken them?”

“I don’t know how anyone could. The door was locked.”

“I thought you said it was unlocked.”

“I mean yesterday. When I made up the room. The door was locked when I left. No one could have gotten in there without a key. Unless Mr. Southstreet let them in.”

“You’re sure the door was locked when you left?”

“It’s one of the rules. You clean the room, you leave it locked.”

“Maybe you forgot?”

Marge shook her head. “I tried the knob. Like I always do.”

Chief Harper’s cell phone rang. He dismissed the chambermaid with a nod, yanked the phone out of his pocket, strolled away.

“Chief, it’s Barney. Your boy came by, picked up the bullet.”

“Fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. I have a job to do. I don’t need some young whippersnapper hounding me to hurry.”

“Dan’s got a gun with fingerprints, Barney. He’d love to match it up.”

“I’m sure you would too. But I have to follow procedure.”

“I understand. Give him the bullet when you can.”

“I
gave
him the bullet. He’s long gone. I just don’t like to be rushed.”

“I’ll let him know. How’s the autopsy coming? You got anything for me yet?”

“I can give you an approximate time of death. Yesterday afternoon, between twelve and four.”

“That ironclad?”

“Hell, no. But as a working hypothesis, I’d take it to the bank.”

Chief Harper hung up the phone, to find a vaguely familiar young man bearing down on him. He was relatively young, probably on the good side of forty. He wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans.

“Chief Harper.”

“Yes?”

“I’m Paul Fishman. I run the Photomat stand at the mall.”

“Yes, of course,” Chief Harper said. That explained his daughter Clara’s sudden interest in photography.

“I saw it on the news. About the murder. Are you calling it that yet?”

“It’s too soon to say.”

Paul jerked his thumb. “It’s not too soon for the TV guys. They said a murder at the Four Seasons Motel.”

Harper’s face darkened. “Did they really?”

“They may have said
potential,
or
alleged,
or whatever newsmen say when they’re not allowed to tell you something obvious.”

Harper nodded. “It’s probably a murder, but don’t quote me on it.”

“Anyway, they showed a shot of the crime-scene ribbon, and it’s Unit 12, isn’t it?”

Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Why?”

Paul Fishman put up his hands. “Look, I don’t know how these things work. Whether I need a lawyer, or what. Doctors have professional privilege, or client confidentiality, or something like that. I’m just a guy in the Photomat. But I don’t want to violate anyone’s right to privacy.”

Chief Harper glanced around for the TV crew, saw that Rick Reed had moved in on the chambermaid. “I haven’t got time for this. You want a lawyer, I’ll get you a lawyer. But just between you and me, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I have some pictures that might have something to do with the crime.”

“Photographs?”

“Yes.”

“You mean a roll of film that you developed?”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t want to violate anyone’s privacy by turning them in to the police?”

“You see my problem?”

“I see your problem. And if I don’t see your photographs, I’m running you in on obstruction of justice. You’re not violating anyone’s privacy here. I’
m ordering
you to turn the pictures over. If you’d rather hear it from a judge, you and your photos can wait in jail until I get a court order for you to turn ’em over.” Harper looked him right in the eye. “The point is, you’re not surrendering them voluntarily, you see what I mean?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So let’s have ’em.”

Paul produced a packet of four-by-six prints. “They’re
just from a throwaway camera, but they’re pretty clear. I do good work. Brightness, definition, color correction. Take a look.”

Chief Harper pulled out the prints. The first was a shot of the motel sign.

“They’re in reverse order,” Paul volunteered. “That’s the last shot on the roll.”

The next-to-the-last shot was a close-up of the number
12
on the door. Then came shots of the chairs. Long shots. Close-ups. All four together. A single chair. Close-ups of the detail work. In the longer shots, the chairs were clearly in the motel unit.

Chief Harper’s pulse quickened. Here it was, a good solid lead. He flipped to the next photo, and stopped dead.

It was a shot of Sherry Carter, young, lithe, and tanned, in a string bikini, a wide-eyed smile, and her hand up in an unmistakable don’t-take-my-picture pose, as she lounged in a deck chair on the front lawn of her house. Sherry looked positively gorgeous, but the allure was lost on Chief Harper, so great was his surprise.

He didn’t let on, said casually, “Whose pictures are these?”

“Cora Felton’s. She dropped them off yesterday, never picked them up.”

“What time yesterday?”

“Early afternoon.”

Sam Brogan came up, practically dragging a young man wearing a baseball cap. “This kid was on the desk yesterday. Whaddya think he saw?”

“Don’t make me guess, Sam,” Harper said irritably.

“Tell him,” Sam ordered.

“A woman loading chairs into a car.”

“You’re kidding! When?”

The kid was sulky, probably figured he was in trouble for not reporting this before. “I dunno. Sometime in the afternoon.”

“Tell him from where,” Sam prompted.

“Unit 12.”

“You recognize the woman?”

“Yeah. It was that Puzzle Lady woman.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. It took a while. She had to load ’em one at a time.”

“The guest didn’t help her?”

The kid crinkled his nose. “Guest?”

“The guy who rented the unit,” Harper said impatiently. “Mr. Southstreet. He didn’t help her carry the chairs?”

“I didn’t see him. Just her.”

“Oh. So you don’t even know if he was there.”

“He was there, all right.”

“I thought you didn’t see him.”

“I didn’t. Not then. But when she got there, I saw him let her in.”

“You
saw
him?”

“I didn’t
see
him. She knocked on the door. It opened. She said, ‘Hi,’ and went in.”

“She said, ‘Hi’?”

“Yeah. I think she said his name, but I couldn’t tell. Not through the office window.”

“You saw this through the office window?”

“When she got there. Not when she took the chairs. I was outside then.”

“And you’re sure it was Cora Felton?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And Mr. Southstreet let her in?”

“Sure he did. That’s how I knew it was okay she took the chairs. He gave ’em to her.”

Chief Harper’s cell phone rang. He jerked it out, growled, “Yeah?”

“Chief, it’s Dan. I’m down at the lab. The bullets match. And that’s not all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know the fingerprints we keep on file—you, me, Sam, the doc, all the other likely people who might have touched something at a crime scene—so we can eliminate ’em?”

“What’s your point?” Harper said irritably.

“You’re not going to believe whose prints are on the gun.”